to of % temt of Miss Katharine Boyd Uopyright, 1908V by The Ur.iveruUy 1' Lisa md the King i.e. THE WORKS OF GEORGE ELIOT POEMS BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY LIBRARY 729334 UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A. Contents PAGE GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET 1 EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE .... 14 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT THE SPANISH GYPSY 21 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 292 AGATHA 317 ARMGART 330 How LISA LOVED THE KING 373 A MINOR PROPHET 394 BROTHER AND SISTER . 404 STRADIVARIUS . 411 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 416 Two LOVERS ' . 441 SELF AND LIFE . ../«'; >• :;. "••;'. .; . -. . . . 443 4 .' . ...,._ '. " SWEET EVENINGS COME AND Go, LOVE" . . . 446 THE DEATH OF MOSES 447 ARION 45l "On MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE" . . - 454 GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET (From the Contemporary Review, vol. viii, p. 397) AS if a strong, delightful water that we knew only as a river appeared in the character of a fountain; as if one whom we had won- dered at as. a good walker or inexhaustible pedes- trian, began to dance; as if Mr. Bright, in the middle of a public meeting, were to oblige the company with a song, — no, no, not like that ex- actly, but like something quite new, — is the ap- pearance of George Eliot in the character of a poet. " The Spanish Gypsy," a poem in five books, originally written, as a prefatory note in- forms us, in the winter of 1864-65, and, after a visit to Spain in 1867, re-written and amplified, is before us. It is a great volume of three hundred and fifty octavo pages; and the first thing which strikes the reader is, that it is a good deal longer than he expected it would be. This is bad, to be- gin with. What right has anybody to make a poem longer than one expected? The next thing that strikes one is, — at all events, the next thing that struck me was, as I very hastily turned over the book, — that the fine largo of the author's man- ner, continued through so many pages, was a very little burdensome in its effect. That may come of the specific levity of my taste; but it is as well to be quite frank. Dr. Holmes, of Boston, says — I fear I am re- peating myself, as he did with his illustration of the alighting huma — that a poem is like a violin VOL. XVII — 1 2 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT in the respect that it needs to be kept and used a good deal before you know what music there is in it. If that is so, what may here be said of George Eliot's poem will have but little value; for the book has only been in my hand a few days, at a time when my preoccupation is great, and reading is painful to me. But, in the first place, I do really think my hasty impressions are correct in this case; and, in the second, I shall find some way of returning to the book, if after very often-repeated readings (according to my habit) I alter any of my opinions. In the Argosy I once gave reasons for looking forward with deep interest to anything George Eliot might do in the shape of poetry, and also hinted the direction in which her risk of greater or less failure appeared to me to lie. * You can never reckon up these high-strung natures, ever ready to be re-impregnated," or tell what sur- prises they may have in store for you. It had often struck me that there was a vein of poetic expression in the writing of George Eliot, of which a hundred instances might have been given. But the question of questions remained : Had she such a power, not to say necessity, of spontaneous ex- pression in verse, that when we saw her poetry we should inevitably say, as Milton said of himself, that the expression in verse was the right-hand speech, that in prose the left-hand speech? How fine are the shades or gradations of quality in this respect, can be little understood by those who have not, by instinct or otherwise, fed, so to speak, on verse. For example, we all know that Wordsworth often wrote, in the printed form of verse, the most utterly detestable prose. Yet he could and did produce most exquisite verse. Again, a living GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET 3 poet of the school of Wordsworth, Mr. Henry Taylor, barely, or little better than barely, enables us to say of him that verse i$ his right-hand and prose his left. Still, after some little demur, we are able to say it ; and we call him a poet. It must not be supposed that this is by any means a matter of mere fluency, correctness, or ease of numbers. Macaulay wrote verses far su- perior in these particulars to many of Mr. Henry Taylor's and many of Wordsworth's. Yet verse was, unequivocally, Macaulay's left-hand; and after adolescence, few people can read his verse for poetry. If I were not unwilling to rouse the prejudice of (I fear!) most of my readers, I should here add Edgar Poe; and, indeed, I really cannot spare him as an illustration. He must have some queer hybrid place, all to himself (which it would take an essay to define) ; but though he may be said to have felt verse his right-hand medium of expression, some few of us hesitate to call him a poet. Not to complicate this matter, let us come at once to the point. What is it that in excellent verse differentiates 1 that which is poetry and that which is not? Not mere fluency, but unconscious fluency; in a word, simplicity. Whatever art may do for the poet, he must be a simple musician to begin with. In looking rapidly over this poem of George Eliot's I have — let me confess it — I have been inclined to fear that this " note " of simplicity is wanting. And, in spite of an abundance of fine passages, I fear, also, there is not the perfect fluency of use and wont. It has been maintained, under shelter of Elizabethan models, that you may 1 I have seen this word objected to as a scientific foppery; but in its form of to difference, the verb is a good old English verb. 4 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT do almost anything in dramatic blank verse, in the way of lengthening and shortening the line. I object to the doctrine, and maintain that the Eliza- bethan examples cited are, in many instances, mere bits of negligence; and, in others, roughnesses of workmanship belonging to the lusty youth of a new art. Blank verse means ten-syllable iambic lines. If there are deviations from this form, as there often are, and should be, they must be regu- lated deviations, not accidental intrusions of other forms. . . . The versification of " The Spanish Gypsy " often breaks out into the very highest excellence ; but it too often wants spontaneity and simplicity. As the same observation applies to the lyrics, one has little hesitation in coming to the conclusion that the primal peculiarity which distinguishes the singer from the sayer is either lacking in George Eliot or that its function has suffered from disuse. I still hesitate to say suffered irreparably, because I still think the orbit of a genius like George Eliot's incalculable. With such a noble ambition, and such immense resources, one may do almost anything. Thus, though I confess I now think it improbable that George Eliot will ever exhibit in a poem the true simplicity of the singer, and compel her readers to admit that her music is bet- ter than her speech, I hesitate, or well-nigh hesi- tate, in saying even so much as that. It is very pathetic that a noble ambition should come so near its mark and yet fail. Only what are we to do? The truth must be spoken. Against the presumption raised by the bulk of the writing must, in fairness, be set the evidence of particular passages, in which the author attains such high excellence that if one had seen those GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET 5 passages alone, there would have been no hesitation or doubt on the score of melody. A few of these, in some of which the reader will catch fine touches of Elizabethan inspiration, I will pick out of the mass. Take, for an example, this description of Zarca : — "He is of those Who steal the keys from snoring Destiny And make the prophets lie." And this : — "My vagabonds are a seed more generous, Quick as the serpent, loving as the hound, And beautiful as disinherited gods. They have a promised land beyond the sea." And this : — "Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall Pencilled upon the grass; high summer morns When white light rains upon the quiet sea And cornfields flush with ripeness. ' And this : — "Present and silent and unchangeable As a celestial portent." Lastly, the best lyric in the poem : — "The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach : my little sister went, And I am lonely. "The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went, And I am lonely. "The world is great: the wind comes rushing by, I wonder where it comes from ; sea-birds cry And hurt my heart; my little sister went, And I am lonely. "The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday : how fast they walk ! I 'm lame, they push me : little Lisa went, And I am lonely." 6 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Besides the want of spontaneity and simplicity in the verse, there are other points which make us feel, with whatever reluctance to admit the thing we undoubtingly see, that in " The Spanish Gypsy " something is wanting, and in that some- thing everything that endears a poem as a poem. The writing has the diffuseness of literature rather than the condensation of poetry; and, admirable as some of it is, we wish it away : at the lowest, we say to ourselves, if a poet had had to utter this, our pleasure would have been perfect; but, as it is, what is before us is almost too good, and yet it is not good enough; it does not compel us to think, le poete a le frisson, either while we read or afterwards. There is too much aggregation and accumulation about it; we are set thinking, and set feeling ; we are agitated ; but we are not thrilled by any single sudden notes. Lastly, or all but lastly, some of the frequent touches of humorous detail are fatal : — "Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal, Exit the cat, retreating towards the dark." This, and all this kind of thing, is gravely wrong in a poem. In some cases the phraseology has this species of modern familiarity and curtness; in others, the equally distinguishable largo of the modern philosophic manner, while what is su- premely needed, namely, finish, is what we in vain go longing for. Finally, the intellectual groundwork, or outline, of the poem shows far too plainly under the colour- ing of passion and the movement of the story. Since " Silas Marner " we have had no book from George Eliot to which this criticism would not, in some degree, be applicable. There is not room GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET 7 here for any exhibition of all the recurring ideas of George Eliot's writings, but one in particular has been growing more and more prominent since " Silas Marner," and of which the first hint is in " The Mill on the Floss." " If the past is not to bind us," said Maggie Tulliver, in answer to the importunities of Stephen Guest, " what is? " In a noticeable and well-remembered review of Mr. Lecky's " History of Rationalism," George Eliot told us that the best part of our lives was made up of organized traditions (I quote from memory, but the meaning was plain) . Putting these two things together, we get the intellectual ground- plan of " The Spanish Gypsy." Perhaps the illus- trious author of the poem would resent the idea that any moral was intended to be conveyed by her recent writings; but, assuredly, this moral is thrust upon us everywhere, in a way which im- plies, if not intention, very eager belief. Leaving the workmanship and the intellectual conception, or interwoven moral criticism, of the poem, and coming to the story, I am sure of only echoing what all the world will say when I call this in the highest degree poetic; and poetically dramatic, too. I must add, and with emphasis, that the story seems to me to gain, as a story, by this mode of presentation, — as I firmly believe " Romola " would have gained, if the question of perfect poetic expression could have been got over. In other words, although the manner of the nov- elist too often obtrudes itself in " The Spanish Gypsy," the author has told the story more effect- ingly, and with much more of truthfulness and local colour and manner, than she would have done if she had been writing it as a novel. Com- pare, for example, what I think are among the 8 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT very finest things George Eliot has ever done, — the scene between Juan the troubadour and the Gypsy girls, at the opening of Book III., and the scene in which Don Amador reads to the retainers of Don Silva from " Las Siete Partidas " the pas- sage beginning, " Et esta gentileza aviene en tres maneras " (the critical reader who stumbles at the " et " must be informed that this is thirteenth- century Spanish) , — compare these two scenes, I say, with the first scene in the barber's shop, and the scene of the Florentine joke, in " Romola," and note how very much the author gains by as- suming the dramatic form. I have heard readers of much critical ability, and much poetic and dramatic instinct, too, complain that they did not see the force of those scenes in "Romola;" but it must be an incredibly d,ull person that misses the force of those scenes in " The Spanish Gypsy." The love-passages, also, are exquisitely beautiful; and in them again the author has gained by using the dramatic form. I dare to add that she has, however, lost by some of the (so to speak) " stage- directions." We d,on't want to be told how a man and woman of the type of Don Silva and Fe- dalma * look when they are saying certain things. We can feel pretty sure when the moment would be too sweet and solemn even for kissing. As Sam Slick said, " Natur' teaches that air." The story of " The Spanish Gypsy " is simply this : Fedalma, a Zincala, is lost in her early child- hood, and brought up by a Spanish duchess, Don Silva's mother. As she grows to womanhood Silva loves her, and she is on the point of marrying him ^ I do not remember having ever seen this name before; it is an ex- quisitely musical word, and, I suppose, is intended to mean Faith of the Soul; or, more intelligibly to some people (not to be envied), Spiritual Fidelity. GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET 9 when the narrative opens. But Fedalma's father, Zarca, a Gypsy Moses, Hiawatha, or both, de- voted to the regeneration of his tribe, suddenly appears upon the scene and claims his daughter. Will she marry Don Silva, or go with her father and be the priestess of a new faith to the Zincali? She decides to accompany her father. Upon this Silva renounces his position as a Spanish noble and Christian knight and becomes a Zincalo. This implies the relinquishment of his post as com- mander of the town and fortress of Bedmar, which it is his duty to guard against the Moors; but he is not aware, at the time he takes the Gypsy oath, that Zarca is already in league with the Moors to take the fortress. Zarca and the Moors, however, succeed in investing the place, and some noble Spaniards, friends of Silva's, including his uncle, Father Isidor, are slain. Mad with remorse and rage, Silva stabs Zarca, but is allowed to go free. The poem closes with the departure of Silva to obtain absolution from the Pope, in order that he may recommence the career of a Christian knight, and the departure of Fedalma to begin, as best she may, the work bequeathed to her by her father, namely, the regeneration of the Zincali. One thing is obvious on the face of this story, — that Silva was guilty, in so far as he was an apostate. But there will not be wanting readers who when asking the question who was the cause of all the misery with which the narrative over- flows, will say, Fedalma. It was all very well to say that her past bound her. But which past? When Zarca started up, she was pledged by her " past " to Silva, and she loved him. What Zarca imported into the situation was, as lawyers say, new matter. The morrow would have seen her 10 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT married to Silva ; and what then, if Zarca had ap- peared upon the stage with his Gypsy patriotism? All the future was dark to her, there was no reason whatever to believe that either she or Zarca would be able to regenerate the Gypsies ; there was pres- ent actual proof that she was essential to Silva, life of his life, and the bond of his being. What right had she to forsake him? It is idle to discuss this, but since, as far as I can make out, there is distinct teaching in the poem, and that teaching is of no force unless Fedalma was, beyond ques- tion, right, it is perfectly fair and appropriate to suggest that there is room for question. It seems to me a little curious that Georg^ Eliot does not see that the same reason which made Sephardo, the astrologer, a son first and a Jew afterwards, would make Fedalma a betrothed woman first and a Zincala next. But I do not dwell upon this point, because I look forward to another opportunity of dealing with what we are now entitled to assume is George Eliot's evangel, — ". . . . that Supreme, the irreversible Past." Irreversible, no doubt, but — "Supreme!" The reader must not imagine that I am darting cap- tiously at a word here. Not at all. George Eliot has a very distinct meaning, which is very dis- tinctly affiliated to a certain mode of thought. To this mode of thought may be traced the astound- ing discords of her late writings, or rather the one astounding discord which runs through them. In submitting to the world a poem, George Eliot is under one serious disadvantage. There are certain particulars in which she is not likely, in verse, to excel her own prose. Clear and pro- GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET 11 found conception, and emphatic, luminous, and affecting presentation of character, is one of them. The power of inventing dramatic situation is an- other. In these particulars " The Spanish Gypsy " falls behind nothing that this distinguished writer has done; though I do not myself feel that either Fedalma or Zarca is dramatically presented to us. Indeed, vivid as George Eliot's painting of char- acter always is, and profoundly intelligent, I never thought it dramatic. Nor is it. Here, as in the other books of George Eliot, character is always most vividly described and analyzed; and what the people do is, of course, in exact accord- ance with what is described; but none of them re- veal themselves without having had the advantage of some criticism. None of them, that is to say, reveal themselves by action only, or by action and speech only, unless the speech takes a critical form. Zarca is shadowy, and Fedalma shadowy. But Juan and Silva we understand well because they are criticised; and Isidor the prior, and Sephardo the Jew, we understand well, because their talk is criticism of a kind which only a certain order of mind could produce. Perhaps the finest portions of the poem lie in some of these critical or quasi- critical passages. Let us take " The Astrologer's Study": — "A room high up in Abderahman's tower, A window open to the still warm eve, And the bright disk of royal Jupiter. Lamps burning low make little atmospheres Of light amid the dimness; here and there Show books and phials, stones and instruments. In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man, In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls, And loose black gown showing a neck and breast Protected by a dim-green amulet; Pale-faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe Ethereal passion in a, world of thought ; 12 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate; Beard scant and grizzled ; mouth shut firm, with curves So subtly turned to meanings exquisite, You seem to read them as you read a word Full-vowelled, long descended, pregnant, — rich With legacies from long, laborious lives." Juan's criticism of himself: — "I can unleash my fancy if you wish And hunt for phantoms: shoot an airy guess And bring down airy likelihood, — some lie Masked cunningly to look like royal truth And cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free, Or else some image of reality That doubt will haodle and reject as false. Ask for conjecture, — I can thread the sky Like any swallow, but, if you insist On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet Right to Bedmar, across the Moorish bounds, A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones Is better stored." And, assuredly, I must not omit the study of the character of Silva himself: — "A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious In his acceptance, dreading all delight That speedy dies and turns to carrion: His senses much exacting, deep instilled With keen imagination's difficult needs ; — Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes, Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream Snatched from the ground by wings and new-endowed With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. Silva was both the lion and the man; First hesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed And loosed the prize, paying his blood for naught. A nature half-transformed, with qualities That oft bewrayed each other, elements Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. Haughty and generous, grave and passionate; With tidal moments of devoutest awe, Sinking anon to farthest ebb of doubt; Deliberating ever, till the sting Of a recurrent ardour made him rush Right against reasons that himself had drilled And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed Too proudly special for obedience, Too subtly pondering for mastery: Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET 13 Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity, Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. But look less curiously: life itself May not express us all, may leave the worst And the best too, like tunes in mechanism Never awaked. In various catalogues Objects stand variously." There is only one living mind which could have given us poetico-psychological studies of human character like these. There is no comparison in range of faculty between such a mind and John Clare's. Is it not strange, and almost pathetic, that an uncultivated peasant could sing, and touch us with music, as no speech could; and yet that a highly cultivated mind like George Eliot's should almost overwhelm our judgment by the richness and volume of what it pours forth in the name of song; and yet that we are compelled to say the bird-note is missing? MATTHEW BROWNE. EXTRACTS FROM GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE (Edited by J. W. CROSS) AMONG my wife's papers were four or five pages of manuscript headed " Notes on the Spanish Gypsy and Tragedy in General." There is no evidence as to the date at which this fragment was written, and it seems to have been left unfinished. But there was evidently some care to preserve it; and as I think she would not have objected to its presentation, I give it here exactly as it stands. It completes the history of the poem. " The subject of * The Spanish Gypsy ' was originally suggested to me by a picture which hangs in the Scuola di' San Rocco at Venice, over the d,oor of the large Sala containing Tintoretto's frescos. It is an Annunciation, said to be by Titian. Of course I had seen numerous pictures of this subject before; and the subject had always attracted me. But in this my second visit to the Scuola di' San Rocco, this small picture of Ti- tian's, pointed out to me for the first time, brought a new train of thought. It occurred to me that here was a great dramatic motive of the same class as those used by the Greek dramatists, yet speci- fically differing from them. A young maiden, be- lieving herself to be on the eve of the chief event of her life, — marriage, — about to share in the ordinary lot of womanhood, full of young hope, has suddenly announced to her that she is chosen GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE 15 to fulfil a great destiny, entailing a terribly differ- ent experience from that of ordinary womanhood. She is chosen, not by any momentary arbitrariness, but as a result of foregoing hereditary conditions : she obeys. ' Behold the handmaid of the Lord.' Here, I thought, is a subject grander than that of Iphigenia, and it has never been used. I came home with this in my mind, meaning to give the motive a clothing in some suitable set of historical and local conditions. My reflections brought me nothing that would serve me, except that moment in Spanish history when the struggle with the Moors was attaining its climax, and when there was the gypsy race present under such conditions as would enable me to get my heroine and the hereditary claim on her among the gypsies. I required the opposition of race to give the need for renouncing the expectation of marriage. I could not use the Jews or the Moors, because the facts of their history were too conspicuously opposed to the working out of my catastrophe. Meanwhile the subject had become more and more pregnant to me. I saw it might be taken as a symbol of the part which is played in the general human lot by hereditary conditions in the largest sense, and of the fact that what we call duty is entirely made up of such conditions; for even in cases of just antagonism to the narrow view of hereditary claims, the whole background of the particular struggle is made up of our inherited nature. Suppose for a moment that our conduct at great epochs was determined entirely by re- flection, without the immediate intervention of feeling, which supersedes reflection, our determi- nation as to the right would consist in an adjust- ment of our individual needs to the dire necessities 16 EXTRACTS FROM of our lot, partly as to our natural constitution, partly as sharers of life with our fellow-beings. Tragedy consists in the terrible difficulty of this adjustment, — "'The dire strife of poor Humanity's afflicted will, Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.' Looking at individual lots, I seemed to see in each the same story, wrought out with more or less of tragedy, and I determined the elements of my drama under the influence of these ideas. " In order to judge properly of the dramatic structure it must not be considered first in the light of doctrinal symbolism, but in the light of a tragedy representing some grand collision in the human lot. And it must be judged accordingly. A good tragic subject must represent a possible, sufficiently probable, not a common, action; and to be really tragic, it must represent irreparable collision between the individual and the general r— - (in differing degrees of generality). It is the in- dividual with whom we sympathize, and the gen- eral of which we recognize the irresistible power. ^- The truth of this test will be seen by applying it to the greatest tragedies. The collision of Greek tragedy is often that between hereditary, entailed Nemesis and the peculiar individual lot, awaken- ing our sympathy, of the particular man or woman whom the Nemesis is shown to grasp with terrific force. Sometimes, as in the Oresteia, there is the clashing of two irreconcilable requirements, — two duties, as we should say in these times. The murder of the father must be avenged by the mur- der of the mother, which must again be avenged. These two tragic relations of the individual and general, and of two irreconcilable ' oughts,' may GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE 17 be — will be — seen to be almost always combined. The Greeks were not taking an artificial, entirely erroneous standpoint in their art, — a standpoint which disappeared altogether with their religion and their art. They had the same essential ele- ments of life presented, to them as we have, and their art symbolized these in grand schematic forms. The Prometheus represents the ineffectual struggle to redeem the small and miserable race of man, against the stronger adverse ordinances that govern the frame of things with a triumphant power. Coming to modern tragedies, what is it that makes Othello a great tragic subject? A story simply of a jealous husband is elevated into a most pathetic tragedy by the hereditary condi- tions of Othello's lot, which give him a subjective ground for distrust. Faust, Rigoletto ( ' Le Roi s'Amuse'), Brutus. It might be a reasonable ground of objection against the whole structure of ' The Spanish Gypsy,' if it were shown that the action is outrageously improbable, — lying outside all that can be congruously conceived of human actions. It is not a reasonable ground of objec- tion that they would have done better to act other- wise, any more than it is a reasonable objection against the Iphigenia that Agamemnon would have done better not to sacrifice his daughter. " As renunciations coming under the same great class, take the renunciation of marriage where marriage cannot take place without entailing mis- ery on the children. -^\ " A tragedy has not to expound why the individ-11 ual must give way to the general; it has to showll that it is compelled to give way, — the tragedy j consisting in the struggle involved, and often in the entirely calamitous issue in spite of a grand VOL. xvn — 2 18 EXTRACTS FROM submission. Silva presents the tragedy of entire rebellion; Fedalma, of a grand submission, which is rendered vain by the effects of Silva's rebellion ; Zarca, the struggle for a great end, rendered vain by the surrounding conditions of life. " Now, what is the fact about our individual lots? A woman, say, finds herself on the earth with an inherited organization: she may be lame, she may inherit a disease, or what is tantamount to a disease; she may be a negress, or have other marks of race repulsive in the community where she is born, etc. One may go on for a long while without reaching the limits of the commonest in- herited misfortunes. It is almost a mockery to say to such human beings, ' Seek your own hap- piness.' The utmost approach to well-being that can be made in such a case is through large resig- nation and acceptance of the inevitable, with as much effort to overcome any disadvantage as good sense will show to be attended with a likelihood of success. Any one may say, that is the dictate of mere rational reflection. But calm can in hardly any human organism be attained by rational reflec- tion. Happily, we are not left to that. Love, pity, constituting sympathy, and generous joy with regard to the lot of our fellow-men comes in, — has been growing since the beginning, — enor- mously enhanced by wider vision of results, by an imagination actively interested in the lot of man- kind generally; and these feelings become piety, — that is, loving, willing submission and heroic Promethean effort towards high possibilities, which may result from our individual life. ' There is really no moral ' sanction ' but this ^inward impulse. The will of God is the same thing as the will of other men, compelling us to GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE 19 work and avoid what they have seen to be harmful to social existence. Disjoined from any perceived good, the divine will is simply so much as we have ascertained of the facts of existence which compel obedience at our peril. Any other notion comes from the supposition of arbitrary revelation. " That favourite view, expressed so often in Clough's poems, of doing duty in blindness as to the result, is likely to deepen the substitution of egoistic yearnings for really moral impulses. We cannot be utterly blind to the results of duty, since that cannot be duty which is not already judged to be for human good. To say the con- trary is to say that mankind have reached no in- ductions as to what is for their good or evil. " The art which leaves the soul in despair is laming to the soul, and is denounced by the healthy sentiment of an active community. The consola- tory elements in ' The Spanish Gypsy ' are derived from two convictions or sentiments which so con- spicuously pervade it that they may be said to be its very warp, on which the whole action is woven. These are: (1) The importance of individual deeds; (2) The all-sufficiency of the soul's pas- sions in determining sympathetic action. " In Silva is presented the claim of fidelity to social pledges; in Fedalma, the claim constituted by an hereditary lot less consciously shared. ' With regard to the supremacy of love : if it were a fact without exception that man or woman never did renounce the joys of love, there could never have sprung up a notion that such renuncia- tion could present itself as a duty. If no parents had ever cared for their children, how could pa- rental affection have been reckoned among the ele- ments of life? But what are the facts in relation 20 GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE to this matter? Will any one say that faithful- ness to the marriage tie has never been regarded as a duty, in spite of the presence of the pro- foundest passion experienced after marriage? Is Guinevere's conduct the type of duty? " Poems of George Eliot THE SPANISH GYPSY BOOK I TIS the warm South, where Europe spreads her lands Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep : Broad-breasted Spain, leaning with equal love (A calm earth-goddess crowned with corn and vines) On the Mid Sea that moans with memories, And on the untravelled Ocean, whose vast tides Pant dumbly passionate with dreams of youth. This river, shadowed by the battlements And gleaming silvery towards the northern sky, Feeds the famed stream that waters Andalus And loiters, amorous of the fragrant air, By Cordova and Seville to the bay Fronting Algarva and the wandering flood Of Guadiana. This deep mountain gorge Slopes widening on the olive-plumed plains Of fair Granada: one far-stretching arm Points to Elvira, one to eastward heights Of Alpuj arras where the new-bathed Day With oriflamme uplifted o'er the peaks Saddens the breasts of northward-looking snows That loved the night, and soared with soaring stars ; Flashing the signals of his nearing swiftness From Almeria's purple-shadowed bay On to the far-off rocks that gaze and glow, — On to Alhambra, strong and ruddy heart Of glorious Morisma, gasping now, A maimed giant in his agony. This town that dips its feet within the stream, And seems to sit a tower-crowned Cybele, Spreading her ample robe adown the rocks, Is rich Bedmar: 'twas Moorish long ago, But now the Cross is sparkling on the Mosque, And bells make Catholic the trembling air. The fortress gleams in Spanish sunshine now ('T is south a mile before the rays are Moorish) , — Hereditary jewel, agraffe bright On all the many-titled privilege Of young Duke Silva. No Castilian knight That serves Queen Isabel has higher charge; For near this frontier sits the Moorish king, Not Boabdil the waverer, who usurps A throne he trembles in, and fawning licks The feet of conquerors, but that fierce lion Grisly El Zagal, who has made his lair In Guadix' fort, and rushing thence with strength, Half his own fierceness, half the untainted heart Of mountain bands that fight for holiday, Wastes the fair lands that lie by Alcala, Wreathing his horse's neck with Christian heads. To keep the Christian frontier, — such high trust Is young Duke Silva's; and the time is great. (What times are little? To the sentinel That hour is regal when he mounts on guard.) The fifteenth century since the Man Divine Taught and was hated in Capernaum Is near its end, — is falling as a husk THE SPANISH GYPSY 23 Away from all the fruit its years have ripened. The Moslem faith, now flickering like a torch In a night struggle on this shore of Spain, Glares, a broad column of advancing flame, Along the Danube and Illyrian shore Far into Italy, where eager monks, Who watch in dreams and dream the while they watch, See Christ grow paler in the baleful light, Crying again the cry of the forsaken. But faith, the stronger for extremity, Becomes prophetic, hears the far-off tread Of western chivalry, sees downward sweep The archangel Michael with the gleaming sword, And listens for the shriek of hurrying fiends Chased from their revels in God's sanctuary. So trusts the monk, and lifts appealing eyes To the high dome, the Church's firmament, Where the blue light-pierced curtain, rolled away Reveals the throne and Him who sits thereon. So trust the men whose best hope for the world Is ever that the world is near its end: Impatient of the stars that keep their course And make no pathway for the coming Judge. But other futures stir the world's great heart. The West now enters on the heritage Won from the tombs of mighty ancestors, The seeds, the gold, the gems, the silent harps That lay deep buried with the memories Of old renown. No more, as once in sunny Avignon, The poet-scholar spreads the Homeric page, And gazes sadly, like the deaf at song; For now the old epic voices ring again And vibrate with the beat and melody 24 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Stirred by the warmth of old Ionian days. The martyred sage, the Attic orator, Immortally incarnate, like the gods, In spiritual bodies, winged words Holding a universe impalpable, Find a new audience. Forevermore, With grander resurrection than was feigned Of Attila's fierce Huns, the soul of Greece Conquers the bulk of Persia. The maimed form Of calmly joyous beauty, marble-limbed, Yet breathing with the thought that shaped its lips, Looks mild reproach from out its opened grave At creeds of terror; and the vine- wreathed god Rising, a stifled question from the silence, Fronts the pierced Image with the crown of thorns. The soul of man is widening towards the past: No longer hanging at the breast of life Feeding in blindness to his parentage, — Quenching all wonder with Omnipotence, Praising a name with indolent piety, — He spells the record of his long descent, More largely conscious of the life that was And from the height that shows where morning shone On far-off summits pale and gloomy now, The horizon widens round him, and the west Looks vast with untracked waves whereon his gaze Follows the flight of the swift-vanished bird That like the sunken sun is mirrored still Upon the yearning soul within the eye. And so in Cordova through patient nights Columbus watches, or he sails in dreams Between the setting stars and finds new day; Then wakes again to the old weary days, Girds on the cord and frock of pale Saint Francis, THE SPANISH GYPSY 25 And like him zealous pleads with foolish men. "I ask but for a million maravedis: Give me three caravels to find a world, New shores, new realms, new soldiers for the Cross. Son cosas grandest" Thus he pleads in vain; Yet faints not utterly, but pleads anew, Thinking, " God means it, and has chosen me." For this man is the pulse of all mankind Feeding an embryo future, offspring strange Of the fond Present, that with mother-prayers And mother-fancies looks for championship Of all her loved beliefs and old-world ways From that young Time she bears within her womb. The sacred places shall be purged again, The Turk converted, and the Holy Church, Like the mild Virgin with the outspread robe, Shall fold all tongues and nations lovingly. But since God works by armies, who shall be The modern Cyrus? Is it France most Christian, Who with his lilies and brocaded knights, French oaths, French vices, and the newest style Of out-puffed sleeve, shall pass from west to east, A winnowing fan to purify the seed For fair millennial harvests soon to come? Or is not Spain the land of chosen warriors? — Crusaders consecrated from the womb, Carrying the sword-cross stamped upon their souls By the long yearnings of a nation's life, Through all the seven patient centuries Since first Pelayo and his resolute band Trusted the God within their Gothic hearts At Covadunga, and defied .Mahound ; Beginning so the Holy War of Spain That now is panting with the eagerness 26 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Of labour near its end. The silver cross Glitters o'er Malaga and streams dread light On Moslem galleys, turning all their stores From threats to gifts. What Spanish knight is he Who, living now, holds it not shame to live Apart from that hereditary battle Which needs his sword? Castilian gentlemen Choose not their task, — they choose to do it well. The time is great, and greater no man's trust Than his who keeps the fortress for his king, Wearing great honours as some delicate robe Brocaded o'er with names 't were sin to tarnish. Born de la Cerda, Calatravan knight, Count of Segura, fourth Duke of Bedmar, Offshoot from that high stock of old Castile Whose topmost branch is proud Medina Celi, — Such titles with their blazonry are his Who keeps this fortress, sworn Alcayde, Lord of the valley, master of the town, Commanding whom he will, himself commanded By Christ his Lord who sees him from the Cross Aiid from bright heaven where the Mother pleads ; — By good Saint James upon the milk-white steed, Who leaves his bliss to fight for chosen Spain; — By the dead gaze of all his ancestors ; — And by the mystery of his Spanish blood Charged with the awe and glories of the past. See now with soldiers in his front and rear He winds at evening through the narrow streets That toward the Castle gate climb devious: His charger, of fine Andalusian stock, An Indian beauty, black but delicate, Is conscious of the herald trumpet note, The gathering glances, and familiar ways THE SPANISH GYPSY 27 That lead fast homeward: she forgets fatigue, And at the light touch of the master's spur Thrills with the zeal to bear him royally, Arches her neck and clambers up the stones As if disdainful of the difficult steep. Night-black the charger, black the rider's plume, But all between is bright with morning hues, — Seems ivory and gold and deep blue gems, And starry flashing steel and pale vermilion, All set in jasper: on his surcoat white Glitter the sword-belt and the jewelled hilt, Red on the back and breast the holy cross, And 'twixt the helmet and the soft-spun white Thick tawny wavelets like the lion's mane Turn backward from his brow, pale, wide, erect, Shadowing blue eyes, — blue as the rain-washed sky That braced the early stem of Gothic kings He claims for ancestry. A goodly knight, A noble caballero, broad of chest And long of limb. So much the August sun, Now in the west but shooting half its beams Past a dark rocky profile toward the plain, At winding opportunities across the slope Makes suddenly luminous for all who see: For women smiling from the terraced roofs; For boys that prone on trucks with head up propped, Lazy and curious, stare irreverent; For men who make obeisance with degrees Of good- will shading toward servility, Where good-will ends and secret fear begins, And curses, too, low-muttered through the teeth, Explanatory to the God of Shem. Five, grouped within a whitened tavern court Of Moorish fashion, where the trellised vines 28 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Purpling above their heads make odorous shade, Note through the open door the passers-by, Getting some rills of novelty to speed The lagging stream of talk and help the wine. 'T is Christian to drink wine : whoso denies His flesh at bidding save of Holy Church, Let him beware and take to Christian sins Lest he be taxed with Moslem sanctity. The souls are five, the talkers only three. (No time, most tainted by wrong faith and rule, But holds some listeners and dumb animals.) MINE HOST is one : he with the well-arched nose, Soft-eyed, fat-handed, loving men for naught But his own humour, patting old and young Upon the back, and mentioning the cost With confidential blandness, as a tax That he collected much against his will From Spaniards who were all his bosom friends: Warranted Christian, — else how keep an inn, Which calling asks true faith? though like his wine Of cheaper sort, a trifle over-new. •"His father was a convert, chose the chrism As men choose physic, kept his chimney warm With smokiest wood upon a Saturday, Counted his gains and grudges on a chaplet, And crossed himself asleep for fear of spies; Trusting the God of Israel would see 'T was Christian tyranny that made him base. Our host his son was born ten years too soon, Had heard his mother call him Ephraim, Knew holy things from common, thought it sin To feast on days when Israel's children mourned, So had to be converted with his sire, To doff the awe he learned as Ephraim, THE SPANISH GYPSY 29 And suit his manners to a Christian name. But infant awe, that unborn breathing thing, Dies with what nourished it, can never rise From the dead womb and walk and seek new pasture. Baptism seemed to him a merry game Not tried before, all sacraments a mode Of doing homage for one's property, And all religions a queer human whim Or else a vice, according to degrees: As, 'tis a whim to like your chestnuts hot, Burn your own mouth and draw your face awry, A vice to pelt frogs with them, — animals Content to take life coolly. And Lorenzo Would have all lives made easy, even lives Of spiders and inquisitors, yet still Wishing so well to flies and Moors and Jews, He rather wished the others easy death; For loving all men clearly was deferred Till all men loved each other. Such mine Host With chiselled smile caressing Seneca, The solemn mastiff leaning on his knee. His right-hand guest is solemn as the dog, Square-faced and massive: BLASCO is his name, A prosperous silversmith from Aragon; In speech not silvery, rather tuned as notes From a deep vessel made of plenteous iron, Or some great bell of slow but certain swing That, if you only wait, will tell the hour As well as flippant clocks that strike in haste And set off chiming a superfluous tune, — Like JUAN there, the spare man with the lute, Who makes you dizzy with his rapid tongue, Whirring athwart your mind with comment swift On speech you would have finished by and by, 30 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Shooting your bird for you while you are loading, Cheapening your wisdom as a pattern known, Woven by any shuttle on demand. Can never sit quite still, too: sees a wasp And kills it with a movement like a flash; Whistles low notes or seems to thrum his lute As a mere hyphen 'twixt two syllables Of any steadier man; walks up and down And snuffs the orange flowers and shoots a pea To hit a streak of light let through the awning. Has a queer face: eyes large as plums, a nose Small, round, uneven, like a bit of wax Melted and cooled by chance. Thin-fingered, lithe And as a squirrel noiseless, startling men Only by quickness. In his speech and look A touch of graceful wildness, as of things Not trained or tamed for uses of the world; Most like the Fauns that roamed in days of old About the listening whispering woods, and shared The subtler sense of sylvan ears and eyes Undulled by scheming thought, yet joined the rout Of men and women on the festal days, And played the syrinx too, and knew love's pains, Turning their anguish into melody. For Juan was a minstrel still, in times When minstrelsy was held a thing outworn. Spirits seem buried and their epitaph Is writ in Latin by severest pens, Yet still they flit above the trodden grave And find new bodies, animating them In quaint and ghostly way with antique souls. So Juan was a troubadour revived, Freshening life's dusty road with babbling rills Of wit and song, living 'mid harnessed men With limbs ungalled by armour, ready so To soothe them weary, and to cheer them sad. THE SPANISH GYPSY 31 Guest at the board, companion in the camp, A crystal mirror to the life around, Flashing the comment keen of simple fact Defined in words; lending brief lyric voice To grief and sadness; hardly taking note Of difference betwixt his own and others'; But rather singing as a listener To the deep moans, the cries, the wild strong joys Of universal Nature, old yet young. Such Juan, the third talker, shimmering bright As butterfly or bird with quickest life. The silent ROLDAN has his brightness too, But only in his spangles and rosettes. His party-coloured vest and crimson hose Are dulled with old Valencian dust, his eyes With straining fifty years at gilded balls To catch them dancing, or with brazen looks At men and women as he made his jests Some thousand times and watched to count the pence His wife was gathering. His olive face Has an old writing in it, characters Stamped deep by grins that had no merriment, The soul's rude mark proclaiming all its blank; As on some faces that have long grown old In lifting tapers up to forms obscene On ancient walls and chuckling with false zest To please my lord, who gives the larger fee For that hard industry in apishness. Roldan would gladly never laugh again; Pensioned, he would be grave as any ox, And having beans and crumbs and oil secured Would borrow no man's jokes for evermore. 'T is harder now because his wife is gone, Who had quick feet, and danced to ravishment 32 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Of every ring jewelled with Spanish eyes, --But died and left this boy, lame from his birth, And sad and obstinate, though when he will He sings God-taught such marrow-thrilling strains As seem the very voice of dying Spring, A flute-like wail that mourns the blossoms gone, And sinks, and is not, like their fragrant breath, With fine transition on the trembling air. He sits as if imprisoned by some fear, Motionless, with wide eyes that seem not made For hungry glancing of a twelve-yeared boy To mark the living thing that he could tease, But for the gaze of some primeval sadness Dark twin with light in the creative ray. This little PABLO has his spangles too, And large rosettes to hide his poor left foot Rounded like any hoof (his mother thought God willed it so to punish all her sins). I said the souls were five, — besides the dog. But there was still a sixth, with wrinkled face, Grave and disgusted with all merriment Not less than Roldan. It is ANNIBAL., The experienced monkey who performs the tricks, Jumps through the hoops, and carries round the hat. Once full of sallies and impromptu feats, Now cautious not to light on aught that 's new, Lest he be whipped to do it o'er again From A to Z, and make the gentry laugh: A misanthropic monkey, gray and grim, Bearing a lot that has no remedy For want of concert in the monkey tribe, We see the company, above their heads The braided matting, golden as ripe corn, THE SPANISH GYPSY 33 Stretched in a curving strip close by the grapes, Elsewhere rolled back to greet the cooler sky; A fountain near, vase-shapen and broad-lipped, Where timorous birds alight with tiny feet, And hesitate and bend wise listening ears, And fly away again with undipped beak. On the stone floor the juggler's heaped-up goods, Carpet and hoops, viol and tambourine, Where Annibal sits perched with brows severe, A serious ape whom none take seriously, Obliged in this fool's world to earn his nuts By hard buffoonery. We see them all, AJnd hear their talk, — the talk of Spanish men, With Southern intonation, vowels turned Caressingly between the consonants, Persuasive, willing, with such intervals As music borrows from the wooing birds, That plead with subtly curving, sweet descent, — And yet can quarrel, as these Spaniards can. JUAN (near the doorway) You hear the trumpet? There 's old Ramon's blast, No bray but his can shake the air so well. He takes his trumpeting as solemnly As angel charged to wake the dead; thinks war Was made for trumpeters, and their great art Made solely for themselves who understand it. His features all have shaped themselves to blowing, And when his trumpet 's bagged or left at home He seems a chattel in a broker's booth, A spoutless watering-can, a promise to pay No sum particular. O fine old Ramon! The blasts get louder and the clattering hoofs; They crack the ear as well as heaven's thunder For owls that listen blinking. There 's the banner. VOL. xvn — 3 34 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT HOST (joining him: the others follow to the door) The Duke has finished reconnoitring, then? We shall hear news. They say he means a sally, — Would strike El Zagal's Moors as they push home Like ants with booty heavier than themselves; Then, joined by other nobles with their bands, Lay siege to Guadix. Juan, you 're a bird That nest within the Castle. What say you? JUAN Naught, I say naught. 'T is but a toilsome game To bet upon that feather Policy, And guess where after twice a hundred puffs 'T will catch another feather crossing it : Guess how the Pope will blow and how the king; What force my lady's fan has; how a cough Seizing the Padre's throat may raise a gust, And how the queen may sigh the feather down. Such catching at imaginary threads, Such spinning twisted air, is not for me. If I should want a game, I '11 rather bet On racing snails, two large, slow, lingering snails, — No spurring, equal weights, — a chance sublime, Nothing to guess at, pure uncertainty. Here comes the Duke. They give but feeble shouts And some look sour. HOST That spoils a fair occasion. Civility brings no conclusions with it, And cheerful Vivas make the moments glide Instead of grating like a rusty wheel. JUAN O they are dullards, kick because they 're stung, And bruise a friend to show they hate a wasp. THE SPANISH GYPSY 35 HOST Best treat your wasp with delicate regard; When the right moment comes say, "By your leave," Use your heel — so ! and make an end of him. That 's if we talked of wasps ; but our young Duke, — Spain holds not a more gallant gentleman. Live, live, Duke Silva ! 'T is a rare smile he has, But seldom seen. JUAN A true hidalgo's smile, That gives much favour, but beseeches none. His smile is sweetened by his gravity: It comes like dawn upon Sierra snows, Seeming more generous for the coldness gone; Breaks from the calm, — a sudden opening flower On dark deep waters : one moment shrouded close, A mystic shrine, the next a full-rayed star, Thrilling, pulse-quickening as a living word. I '11 make a song of that. HOST Prithee, not now. You '11 fall to staring like a wooden saint, And wag your head as it were set on wires. Here 's fresh sherbet. Sit, be good company. (To BLASCO.) You are a stranger, sir, and can- not know How our Duke's nature suits his princely frame. BLASCO Nay, but I marked his spurs, — chased cunningly ! A duke should know good gold and silver plate; 36 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Then he will know the quality of mine. I 've ware for tables and for altars too, Our Lady in all sizes, crosses, bells: He '11 need such weapons full as much as swords If he would capture any Moorish town. For, let me tell you, when a mosque is cleansed . . . JUAN The demons fly so thick from sound of bells And smell of incense, you may see the air Streaked with them as with smoke. Why, they are spirits: You may well think how crowded they must be To make a sort of haze. BLASCO I knew not that. Still, they're of smoky nature, demons are; And since you say so, — well, it proves the more The need of bells and censers. Ay, your Duke Sat well: a true hidalgo. I can judge, — Of harness specially. I saw the camp, The royal camp at Velez Malaga. 'T was like the court of heaven, — such liveries! And torches carried by the score at night Before the nobles. Sirs, I made a dish To set an emerald in would fit a crown, For Don Alonzo, lord of Aguilar. Your Duke 's no whit behind him in his mien Or harness either. But you seem to say The people love him not. HOST They 've naught against him. But certain winds will make men's temper bad. THE SPANISH GYPSY 37 When the Solano blows hot venomed breath, It acts upon men's knives: steel takes to stabbing Which else, with cooler winds, were honest steel, Cutting but garlick. There 's a wind just now Blows right from Seville — BLASCO Ay, you mean the wind . . . Yes, yes, a wind that 's rather hot . . . HOST With fagots. JUAN A wind that suits not with our townsmen's blood. Abram, 't is said, objected to be scorched, And, as the learned Arabs vouch, he gave The antipathy in full to Ishmael. 'T is true, these patriarchs had their oddities. BLASCO Their oddities? I 'm of their mind, I know. Though, as to Abraham and Ishmael, I 'm an old Christian, and owe naught to them Or any Jew among them. But I know We made a stir in Saragossa — we : The men of Aragon ring hard, — true metal. Sirs, I 'm no friend to heresy, but then A Christian's money is not safe. As how? A lapsing Jew or any heretic May owe me twenty ounces: suddenly He 's prisoned, suffers penalties, — 't is well : If men will not believe, 't is good to make them, But let the penalties fall on them alone. 38 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The Jew is stripped, his goods are confiscate; Now, where, I pray you, go my twenty ounces? God knows, and perhaps the King may, but not I And more, my son may lose his young wife's dower Because 't was promised since her father's soul Fell to wrong thinking. How was I to know? I could but use my sense and cross myself. Christian is Christian, — I give in, — but still Taxing is taxing, though you call it holy. We Saragossans liked not this new tax They call the — nonsense, I 'm from Aragon ! I speak too bluntly. But, for Holy Church, No man believes more. HOST Nay, sir, never fear. Good Master Roldan here is no delator. ROLDAN (starting from a reverie) You speak to me, sirs? I perform to-night — The Pla£a Santiago. Twenty tricks, All different. I dance, too. And the boy Sings like a bird. I crave your patronage. BLASCO Faith, you shall have it, sir. In travelling I take a little freedom, and am gay. You marked not what I said just now? ROLDAN I? no. I pray your pardon. I Ve a twinging knee That makes it hard to listen. You were saying? THE SPANISH GYPSY 39 BLASCO Nay, it was naught. (Aside to HOST.) Is it his deepness? HOST No. He 's deep in nothing but his poverty. BLASCO But 't was his poverty that made me think . . . HOST His piety might wish to keep the feasts As well as fasts. No fear; he hears not. BLASCO Good. I speak my mind about the penalties, But, look you, I 'm against assassination. You know my meaning — Master Arbues, The grand Inquisitor in Aragon. I knew naught, — paid no copper towards the deed. But I was there, at prayers, within the church. How could I help it ? Why, the saints were there, And looked straight on above the altars. I ... JUAN Looked carefully another way. BLASCO Why, at my beads. 'T was after midnight, and the canons all Were chanting matins. I was not in church To gape and stare. I saw the martyr kneel: I never liked the look of him alive, — 40 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT He was no martyr then. I thought he made An ugly shadow as he crept athwart The bands of light, then passed within the gloom By the broad pillar. 'T was in our great Seo, At Saragossa. The pillars tower so large You cross yourself to see them, lest white Death Should hide behind their dark. And so it was. I looked away again and told my beads Unthinkingly; but still a man has ears; And right across the chanting came a sound As if a tree had crashed above the roar Of some great torrent. So it seemed to me; For when you listen long and shut your eyes Small sounds get thunderous. And he 'd a shell Like any lobster: a good iron suit From top to toe beneath the innocent serge. That made the telltale sound. But then came shrieks. The chanting stopped and turned to rushing feet, And in the midst lay Master Arbues, Felled like an ox. 'T was wicked butchery. Some honest men had hoped it would have scared The Inquisition out of Aragon. 'T was money thrown away, — I would say, crime, — Clean thrown away. HOST That was a pity now. Next to a missing thrust, what irks me most Is a neat well-aimed stroke that kills your man, Yet ends in mischief, — as in Aragon. It was a lesson to our people here. Else there 's a monk within our city walls, A holy, high-born, stern Dominican, They might have made the great mistake to kill. THE SPANISH GYPSY 41 BLASCO What! is he? ... HOST Yes ; a Master Arbues Of finer quality. The Prior here And uncle to our Duke. BLASCO He will want plate : A holy pillar or a crucifix. But, did you say, he was like Arbues? JUAN As a black eagle with gold beak and claws Is like a raven. Even in his cowl, Covered from head to foot, the Prior is known From all the black herd round. When he uncovers And stands white-frocked, with ivory face, his eyes Black-gleaming, black his coronet of hair Like shredded jasper, he seems less a man With struggling aims than pure incarnate Will, Fit to subdue rebellious nations, nay, That human flesh he breathes in, charged with passion Which quivers in his nostril and his lip, But disciplined by long-indwelling will To silent labour in the yoke of law. A truce to thy comparisons, Lorenzo ! Thine is no subtle nose for difference; 'T is dulled by feigning and civility. HOST Pooh, thou 'rt a poet, crazed with finding words May stick to things and seem like qualities. No pebble is a pebble in thy hands: 42 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT 'T is a moon out of work, a barren egg, Or twenty things that no man sees but thee. Our father Isidor 's — a living saint, And that to heresy, some townsmen think : Saints should be dead, according to the Church. My mind is this: the Father is so holy 'T were sin to wish his soul detained from bliss. Easy translation to the realms above, The shortest journey to the seventh heaven, Is what I 'd never grudge him. BLASCO Piously said. Look you, I 'm dutiful, obey the Church When there 's no help for it : I mean to say, When Pope and Bishop and all customers Order alike. But there be bishops now, And were aforetime, who have held it wrong, /This hurry to convert the Jews. As, how? Your Jew pays tribute to the bishop, say. That 's good, and must please God, to see the Church Maintained in ways that ease the Christian's purse. Convert the Jew, and where 's the tribute, pray? He lapses, too : 't is slippery work, conversion : And then the holy taxing carries off His money at one sweep. No tribute more! He 's penitent or burnt, and there 's an end. Now guess which pleases God . . . JUAN Whether he likes A well-burnt Jew or well-fed bishop best. [While Juan put this problem theologic Entered, with resonant step, another guest, — THE SPANISH GYPSY 43 A soldier: all his keenness in his sword, His eloquence in scars upon his cheek, His virtue in much slaying of the Moor: With brow well-creased in horizontal folds To save the space, as having naught to do: Lips prone to whistle whisperingly, — no tune, But trotting rhythm : meditative eyes, Most often fixed upon his legs and spurs: Invited much, and held good company: Styled Captain Lopez.] LOPEZ At your service, sirs. JUAN Ha, Lopez? Why, thou hast a face full-charged As any herald's. What news of the wars? LOPEZ Such news as is most bitter on my tongue. JUAN Then spit it forth. HOST Sit, Captain : here 's a cup, Fresh-filled. What news? LOPEZ 'T is bad. We make no sally : We sit still here and wait whate'er the Moor Shall please to do. HOST Some townsmen will be glad. 44 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT LOPEZ Glad, will they be? But I 'm not glad, not I, Nor any Spanish soldier of clean blood. But the Duke's wisdom is to wait a siege Instead of laying one. Therefore — meantime — x-He will be married straightway. HOST Ha, ha, ha! Thy speech is like an hourglass ; turn it down The other way, 't will stand as well, and say The Duke will wed, therefore he waits a siege. But what say Don Diego and the Prior? The holy uncle and the fiery Don? LOPEZ Oh there be sayings running all abroad As thick as nuts o'erturned. No man need lack. Some say, 't was letters changed the Duke's intent : From Malaga, says Bias. From Rome, says Quintin. From spies at Guadix, says Sebastian. Some say, 't is all a pretext, — say, the Duke Is but a lapdog hanging on a skirt, Turning his eyeballs upward like a monk: 'T was Don Diego said that, — so says Bias ; Last week, he said . . . JUAN Oh do without the " said "! Open thy mouth and pause in lieu of it. I had as lief be pelted with a pea Irregularly in the selfsame spot As hear such iteration without rule, Such torture of uncertain certainty. THE SPANISH GYPSY 45 LOPEZ Santiago! Juan, thou art hard to please. I speak not for my own delighting, I. I can be silent, I. BLASCO Nay, sir, speak on! I like your matter well. I deal in plate. This wedding touches me. Who is the bride? LOPEZ One that some say the Duke does ill to wed. One that his mother reared — God rest her soul ! — Duchess Diana, — she who died last year. A bird picked up away from any nest. Her name — the Duchess gave it — is Fedalma. No harm in that. But the Duke stoops, they say, In wedding her. And that 's the simple truth. JUAN Thy simple truth is but a false opinion: The simple truth of asses who believe Their thistle is the very best of food. Fie, Lopez, thou a Spaniard with a sword Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops By doing honour to the maid he loves ! He stoops alone when he dishonours her. LOPEZ Nay, I said naught against her. JUAN Better not. Else I would challenge thee to fight with wits, 46 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And spear thee through and through ere thou couldst draw The bluntest word. Yes, yes, consult thy spurs: Spurs are a sign of knighthood, and should tell thee That knightly love is blent with reverence As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue. Don Silva's heart beats to a chivalric tune: He wills no highest-born Castilian dame, Betrothed to highest noble, should be held More sacred than Fedalma. He enshrines Her virgin image for the general worship And for his own, — will guard her from the world, Nay, his profaner self, lest he should lose The place of his religion. He does well. Naught can come closer to the poets' strain. HOST Or further from their practice, Juan, eh? If thou 'rt a specimen? JUAN Wrong, my Lorenzo 1 Touching Fedalma the poor poet plays A finer part even than the noble Duke. LOPEZ By making ditties, singing with round mouth Likest a crowing cock? Thou meanest that? JUAN Lopez, take physic, thou art getting ill, Growing descriptive ; 't is unnatural. I mean, Don Silva's love expects reward, Kneels with a heaven to come; but the poor poet THE SPANISH GYPSY 47 Worships without reward, nor hopes to find A heaven save in his worship. He adores The sweetest woman for her sweetness' sake, Joys in the love that was not born for him, Because 'tis lovingness, as beggars joy, Warming their naked limbs on wayside walls, To hear a tale of princes and their glory. There 's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) Worships Fedalma with so true a love That if her silken robe were changed for rags, And she were driven out to stony wilds Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss Her ragged garment's edge, and only ask For leave to be her slave. Digest that, friend, Or let it lie upon thee as a weight To check light thinking of Fedalma. LOPEZ I? I think no harm of her; I thank the saints I wear a sword and peddle not in thinking. 'T is Father Marcos says she '11 not confess And loves not holy water; says her blood Is infidel; says the Duke's wedding her Is union of light with darkness. JUAN Tush! [Now Juan — who by snatches touched his lute With soft arpeggio, like a whispered dream Of sleeping music, while he spoke of love, — In jesting anger at the soldier's talk Thrummed loud and fast, then faster and more loud, Till, as he answered, " Tush! " he struck a chord 48 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Sudden as whip-crack close by Lopez' ear. Mine host and Blasco smiled, the mastiff barked, Roldan looked up and Annibal looked down, Cautiously neutral in so new a case; The boy raised longing, listening eyes that seemed An exiled spirit's waiting in strained hope Of voices coming from the distant land. But Lopez bore the assault like any rock: That was not what he drew his sword at — he! He spoke with neck erect.] LOPEZ If that 's a hint The company should ask thee for a song, Sing, then! HOST Ay, Juan, sing, and jar no more. Something brand new. Thou 'rt wont to make my ear A test of novelties. Hast thou aught fresh? JUAN As fresh as rain-drops. Here 's a Cancion Springs like a tiny mushroom delicate Out of the priest's foul scandal of Fedalma. [He preluded with questioning intervals, Rising, then falling just a semitone, In minor cadence, — sound with poised wing Hovering and quivering towards the needed fall. Then in a voice that shook the willing air With masculine vibration sang this song. Should I long that dark were fair? Say, O song! Lacks my love aught , that I should long? THE SPANISH GYPSY 49 Dark the night, with breath all flow'rs, And tender broken voice that fills With ravishment the listening hours: Whisperings, wooings, Liquid ripples and soft ring-dove cooings In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills. Dark the night. Yet is she bright, For in her dark she brings the mystic star, Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love, From some unknown afar. O radiant Dark! O darkly fostered ray! Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day. While Juan sang, all round the tavern court Gathered a constellation of black eyes. Fat Lola leaned upon the balcony With arms that might have pillowed Hercules (Who built, 't is known, the mightiest Spanish towns) ; Thin Alda's face, sad as a wasted passion, Leaned o'er the nodding baby's; 'twixt the rails The little Pepe showed his two black beads, His flat-ringed hair and small Semitic nose Complete and tiny as a new-born minnow; Patting his head and holding in her arms The baby senior, stood Lorenzo's wife All negligent, her kerchief discomposed By little clutches, woman's coquetry Quite turned to mother's cares and sweet content. These on the balcony, while at the door Gazed the lank boys and lazy-shouldered men. 'T is likely too the rats and insects peeped, Being southern Spanish ready for a lounge. The singer smiled, as doubtless Orpheus smiled, To see the animals both great and small, VOL. xvn— 4 50 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The mountainous elephant and scampering mouse, Held by the ears in decent audience; Then, when mine host desired the strain once more, He fell to preluding with rhythmic change Of notes recurrent, soft as pattering drops That fall from off the eaves in faery dance When clouds are breaking ; till at measured pause He struck, in rare responsive chords, a refrain.] HOST Come, then, a gayer romaunt, if thou wilt: I quarrel not with change. What say you, Captain? LOPEZ All 's one to me. I note no change of tune, Not I, save in the ring of horses' hoofs, Or in the drums and trumpets when they call To action or retreat. I ne'er could see The good of singing. BLASCO Why, it passes time, — Saves you from getting over- wise : that 's good. For, look you, fools are merry here below, Yet they will go to heaven all the same, Having the sacraments; and, look you, heaven Is a long holiday, and solid men, Used to much business, might be ill at ease Not liking play. And so in travelling I shape myself betimes to idleness And take fools' pleasures . . . HOST Hark, the song begins! THE SPANISH GYPSY 51 JUAN (sings) Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness, Lithe as panther forest-roaming. Long-armed naiad, when she dances, On a stream of ether 'floating, — Bright, O bright Fedalma! Form all curves like softness drifted, Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling, Far-off music slowly winged, Gently rising, gently sinking, — Bright, O bright Fedalma! Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf, Cloud high-born in noonday spotless, Sudden perfect as the dew-bead, Gem of earth and sky begotten, — Bright, O bright Fedalma! Beauty has no mortal father, Holy light her form engendered Out of tremor, yearning, gladness, Presage sweet and joy remembered, — Child of Light, Fedalma! BLASCO Faith, a good song, sung to a stirring tune. I like the words returning in a round ; It gives a sort of sense. Another such! ROLDAN (rising) Sirs, you will hear my boy. 'T is very hard When gentles sing for naught to all the town. How can a poor man live? And now 't is time I go to the Placa, — who will give me pence When he can hear hidalgos and give naught? 52 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT JUAN True, friend. Be pacified. I '11 sing no more. Go thou, and we will follow. Never fear. My voice is common as the ivy leaves, Plucked in all seasons, — bears no price ; the boy's Is like the almond blossoms. Ah, he 's lame! HOST Load him not heavily. Here, Pedro ! help. Go with them to the Pla9a, take the hoops. The sights will pay thee. BLASCO I '11 be there anon, And set the fashion with a good white coin. But let us see as well as hear. HOST Ay, prithee. Some tricks, a dance. BLASCO Yes, 't is more rational. ROLDAN (turning round with the bundle and mon- key on his shoulders) You shall see all, sirs. There 's no man in Spain Knows his art better. I Ve a twinging knee Oft hinders dancing, and the boy is lame. But no man's monkey has more tricks than mine. [At this high praise the gloomy Annibal, Mournful professor of high drollery, Seemed to look gloomier, and the little troop Went slowly out, escorted from the door THE SPANISH GYPSY 53 By all the idlers. From the balcony Slowly subsided the black radiance Of agate eyes, and broke in chattering sounds, Coaxings and trampings, and the small hoarse squeak Of Pepe's reed. And our group talked again.] HOST I '11 get this juggler, if he quits him well, An audience here as choice as can be lured. For me, when a poor devil does his best, 'T is my delight to soothe his soul with praise. What though the best be bad? remains the good Of throwing food to a lean hungry dog. I 'd give up the best jugglery in life To see a miserable juggler pleased. But that 's my humour. Crowds are malcontent, And cruel as the Holy . . . Shall we go ? All of us now together? LOPEZ Well, not I. I may be there anon, but first I go To the lower prison. There is strict command '•That all our Gypsy prisoners shall to-night Be lodged within the fort. They Ve forged enough Of balls and bullets, — used up all the metal. At morn to-morrow they must carry stones Up the south tower. 'T is a fine stalwart band, Fit for the hardest tasks. Some say, the queen Would have the Gypsies banished with the Jews. Some say, 't were better harness them for work. They 'd feed on any filth and save the Spaniard. Some say — but I must go. 'T will soon be time To head the escort. We shall meet again. 54 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT BLASCO Go, sir, with God (exit LOPEZ). A very proper man, -And soldierly. But, for this banishment Some men are hot on, it ill pleases me. The Jews, now (sirs, if any Christian here Had Jews for ancestors, I blame him not ; We cannot all be Goths of Aragon) , — Jews are not fit for heaven, but on earth They are most useful. 'T is the same with mules, Horses, or oxen, or with any pig Except Saint Anthony's. They are useful here (The Jews, I mean) though they may go to hell. And, look you, useful sins, — why Providence Sends Jews to do 'em, saving Christian souls. The very Gypsies, curbed and harnessed well, Would make draught cattle, feed on vermin too, Cost less than grazing brutes, and turn bad food To handsome carcasses ; sweat at the forge For little wages, and well drilled and flogged Might work like slaves, some Spaniards looking on. I deal in plate, and am no priest to say What God may mean, save when he means plain sense ; But when he sent the Gypsies wandering In punishment because they sheltered not Our Lady and Saint Joseph (and no doubt Stole the small ass they fled with into Egypt) , Why send them here? 'T is plain he saw the use They 'd be to Spaniards. Shall we banish them, And tell God we know better? 'T is a sin. They talk of vermin; but, sirs, vermin large Were made to eat the small, or else to eat The noxious rubbish, and picked Gypsy men Might serve in war to climb, be killed, and fall, THE SPANISH GYPSY 55 To make an easy ladder. Once I saw A Gypsy sorcerer, at a spring and grasp, Kill one who came to seize him: talk of strength! Nay, swiftness too, for while we crossed ourselves He vanished like — say, like . . . JUAN A swift black snake, Or like a living arrow fledged with will. BLASCO Why, did you see him, pray? JUAN Not then, but now As painters see the many in the one. We have a Gypsy in Bedmar whose frame Nature compacted with such fine selection, 'T would yield a dozen types : all Spanish knights, From him who slew Rolando at the pass Up to the mighty Cid ; all deities, Thronging Olympus in fine attitudes; Or all hell's heroes whom the poet saw Tremble like lions, writhe like demigods. HOST Pause not yet, Juan, — more hyperbole ! Shoot upward still and flare in meteors Before thou sink to earth in dull brown fact. BLASCO Nay, give me fact, high shooting suits not me. I never stare to look for soaring larks. What is this Gypsy? HOST Chieftain of a band, The Moor's allies, whom full a month ago Our Duke surprised and brought as captives home. He needed smiths, and doubtless the brave Moor Has missed some useful scouts and archers too. Juan's fantastic pleasure is to watch These Gypsies forging, and to hold discourse With this great chief, whom he transforms at will To sage or warrior, and like the sun Plays daily at fallacious alchemy, Turns sand to gold and dewy spider-webs To myriad rainbows. Still the sand is sand, And still in sober shade you see the web. 'T is so, I '11 wager, with his Gypsy chief, — A piece of stalwart cunning, nothing more. JUAN No! My invention had been all too poor To frame this Zarca as I saw him first. 'T was when they stripped him. In his chieftain's gear, Amidst his men he seemed a royal barb Followed by wild-maned Andalusian colts. He had a necklace of a strange device In finest gold of unknown workmanship, But delicate as Moorish, fit to kiss Fedalma's neck, and play in shadows there. He wore fine mail, a rich-wrought sword and belt, And on his surcoat black a broidered torch, A pine-branch flaming, grasped by two dark hands. But when they stripped him of his ornaments It was the bawbles lost their grace, not he. His eyes, his mouth, his nostril, all inspired THE SPANISH GYPSY 57 With scorn that mastered utterance of scorn, With power to check all rage until it turned To ordered force, unleashed on chosen prey, — It seemed the soul within him made his limbs And made them grand. The bawbles were well gone. He stood the more a king, when bared to man. BLASCO Maybe. But nakedness is bad for trade, And is not decent. Well-wrought metal, sir, Is not a bawble. Had you seen the camp, The royal camp at Velez Malaga, Ponce de Leon and the other dukes, The king himself and all his thousand knights For body-guard, 't would not have left you breath To praise a Gypsy thus. A man 's a man ; But when you see a king, you see the work Of many thousand men. King Ferdinand Bears a fine presence, and hath proper limbs; But what though he were shrunken as a relic? You 'd see the gold and gems that cased him o'er, And all the pages round him in brocade, And all the lords, themselves a sort of kings, Doing him reverence. That strikes an awe Into a common man, — especially A judge of plate. HOST Faith, very wisely said. Purge thy speech, Juan. It is over-full Of this same Gypsy. Praise the Catholic King. And come now, let us see the juggler's skill. 58 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The Plapa Santiago 'T is daylight still, but now the golden cross Uplifted by the angel on the dome Stands rayless in calm colour clear-defined Against the northern blue ; from turrets high The flitting splendour sinks with folded wing Dark-hid till morning, and the battlements Wear soft relenting whiteness mellowed o'er By summers generous and winters bland. Now in the east the distance casts its veil, And gazes with a deepening earnestness. The old rain-fretted mountains in their robes Of shadow-broken gray ; the rounded hills Reddened with blood of Titans, whose huge limbs, Entombed within, feed full the hardy flesh Of cactus green and blue, broad-sworded aloes; The cypress soaring black above the lines Of white court-walls; the jointed sugar-canes Pale-golden with their feathers motionless In the warm quiet ; — all thought- teaching form Utters itself in firm unshimmering hues. For the great rock has screened the westering sun That still on plains beyond streams vaporous gold Among the branches; and within Bedmar Has come the time of sweet serenity When colour glows unglittering, and the soul Of visible things shows silent happiness, As that of lovers trusting though apart. The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers ; The winged life that pausing seems a gem Cunningly carven on the dark green leaf; The face of man with hues supremely blent To difference fine as of a voice 'mid sounds : — Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge THE SPANISH GYPSY 59 Flushed gravely from baptismal sacrament. All beauteous existence rests, yet wakes, Lies still, yet conscious, with clear open eyes And gentle breath and mild suffused joy. 'T is day, but day that falls like melody Repeated on a string with graver tones, — Tones such as linger in a long farewell. The Pla9a widens in the passive air, — The Pla9a Santiago, where the church, A mosque converted, shows an eyeless face Red-checkered, faded, doing penance still, — Bearing with Moorish arch the imaged saint, Apostle, baron, Spanish warrior, Whose charger's hoofs trample the turbaned dead, Whose banner with the Cross, the bloody sword, Flashes athwart the Moslem's glazing eye, And mocks his trust in Allah who forsakes. Up to the church the Placa gently slopes, In shape most like the pious palmer's shell, Girdled, with low white houses; high above Tower the strong fortress and sharp-angled wall And well-flanked castle gate. From o'er the roofs, And from the shadowed patios cool, there spreads The breath of flowers and aromatic leaves Soothing the sense with bliss indefinite, — A baseless hope, a glad, presentiment, That curves the lip more softly, fills the eye With more indulgent beam. And so it soothes, So gently sways the pulses of the crowd Who make a zone about the central spot Chosen by Roldan for his theatre. Maids with arched eyebrows, delicate-pencilled, dark, Fold their round arms below the kerchief full; Men shoulder little girls; and grandames gray, 60 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT But muscular still, hold babies on their arms; While mothers keep the stout-legged boys in front Against their skirts, as old Greek pictures show The Glorious Mother with the Boy divine. Youths keep the places for themselves, and roll Large lazy eyes, and call recumbent dogs (For reasons deep below the reach of thought). The old men cough with purpose, wish to hint Wisdom within that cheapens jugglery, Maintain a neutral air, and knit their brows In observation. None are quarrelsome, Noisy, or very merry; for their blood Moves slowly into fervour, — they rejoice Like those dark birds that sweep with heavy wing, Cheering their mates with melancholy cries. But now the gilded balls begin to play In rhythmic numbers, ruled by practice fine Of eye and muscle: all the juggler's form Consents harmonious in swift-gliding change, Easily forward stretched or backward bent With lightest step and movement circular Round a fixed point: 'tis not the old Roldan now, The dull, hard, weary, miserable man, The soul all parched to languid appetite And memory of desire : 't is wondrous force That moves in combination multiform Towards conscious ends : 't is Roldan glorious Holding all eyes like any meteor, King of the moment save when Annibal Divides the scene and plays the comic part, Gazing with blinking glances up and down, Dancing and throwing naught and catching it, With mimicry as merry as the tasks Of penance-working shades in Tartarus. THE SPANISH GYPSY 61 Pablo stands passive, and a space apart, Holding a viol, waiting for command. Music must not be wasted, but must rise As needed climax; and the audience Is growing with late comers. Juan now, And the familiar Host, with Blasco broad, Find way made gladly to the inmost round Studded with heads. Lorenzo knits the crowd Into one family by showing all Good- will and recognition. Juan casts His large and rapid-measuring glance around; But — with faint quivering, transient as a breath Shaking a flame — his eyes make sudden pause Where by the jutting angle of a street Castle-ward leading, stands a female form, A kerchief pale square-drooping o'er the brow, About her shoulders dim brown serge, — in garb Most like a peasant-woman from the vale, Who might have lingered after marketing To see the show. What thrill mysterious, Ray-borne from orb to orb of conscious eyes, The swift observing sweep of Juan's glance Arrests an instant, then with prompting fresh Diverts it lastingly? He turns at once To watch the gilded balls, and nod and smile At little round Pepita, blondest maid In all Bedmar, — Pepita, fair yet flecked, Saucy of lip and nose, of hair as red As breasts of robins stepping on the snow, — Who stands in front with little tapping feet, And baby-dimpled hands that hide enclosed Those sleeping crickets, the dark castanets. But soon the gilded balls have ceased to play, And Annibal is leaping through the hoops That turn to twelve, meeting him as he flies In the swift circle. Shuddering he leaps, 62 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT But with each spring flies swift and swifter still To loud and louder shouts, while the great hoops Are changed to smaller. Now the crowd is fired. The motion swift, the living victim urged, The imminent failure and repeated scape Hurry all pulses and intoxicate With subtle wine of passion many-mixt. 'T is all about a monkey leaping hard Till near to gasping; but it serves as well As the great circus or arena dire, Where these are lacking. Roldan cautiously Slackens the leaps and lays the hoops to rest, And Annibal retires with reeling brain And backward stagger, — pity, he could not smile ! Now Roldan spreads his carpet, now he shows Strange metamorphoses: the pebble black Changes to whitest egg within his hand; A staring rabbit, with retreating ears, Is swallowed by the air and vanishes; He tells men's thoughts about the shaken dice, Their secret choosings ; makes the white beans pass With causeless act sublime from cup to cup Turned empty on the ground, — diablerie That pales the girls and puzzles all the boys: These tricks are samples, hinting to the town Roldan's great mastery. He tumbles next, And Annibal is called to mock each feat With arduous comicality and save By rule romantic the great public mind (And Roldan's body) from too serious strain. But with the tumbling, lest the feats should fail, And so need veiling in a haze of sound, Pablo awakes the viol and the bow, — The masculine bow that draws the woman's heart THE SPANISH GYPSY 63 From out the strings and makes them cry, yearn, plead, Tremble, exult, with mystic union Of joy acute and tender suffering. To play the viol and discreetly mix Alternate with the bow's keen biting tones The throb responsive to the finger's touch, Was rarest skill that Pablo half had caught From an old blind and wandering Catalan; The other half was rather heritage From treasure stored by generations past In winding chambers of receptive sense. The winged sounds exalt the thick-pressed crowd With a new pulse in common, blending all The gazing life into one larger soul With dimly widened consciousness: as waves In heightened movement tell of waves far off. And the light changes ; westward stationed clouds, The sun's ranged outposts, luminous message spread, Rousing quiescent things to doff their shade And show themselves as added audience. Now Pablo, letting fall the eager bow, Solicits softer murmurs from the strings, And now above them pours a wondrous voice (Such as Greek reapers heard in Sicily) With wounding rapture in it, like love's arrows; And, clear upon clear air as coloured gems Dropped in a crystal cup of water pure, Fall words of sadness, simple, lyrical: Spring comes hither, Buds the rose; Roses wither, Sweet spring goes. Ojald, would she carry me! 64 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Summer soars, — Wide-winged day White light pours, Flies away. Ojald, would he carry me! Soft winds blow, Westward bornf Onward go Toward the morn. Ojald, would they carry me! Sweet birds sing O'er the graves, Then take wing O'er the waves. Ojald, would they carry me! When the voice paused and left the viol's note To plead forsaken, 't was as when a cloud, Hiding the sun, makes all the leaves and flowers Shiver. But when with measured change the strings Had taught regret new longing, clear again, Welcome as hope recovered, flowed the voice. Warm whispering through the slender olive leaves Came to me a gentle sound, Whispering of a secret found In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves: Said it was sleeping for me in the morn, Called it gladness, called it joy, Drew me on — " Come hither, boy " — To where the blue wings rested on the corn. I thought the gentle sound had whispered true, — Thought the little heaven mine, Leaned to clutch the thing divine, And saw the blue wings melt within the blue. THE SPANISH GYPSY 65 The long notes linger on the trembling air, With subtle penetration enter all The myriad corridors of the passionate soul, Message-like spread, and answering action rouse. Not angular jigs that warm the chilly limbs In hoary northern mists, but action curved To soft andante strains pitched plaintively. Vibrations sympathetic stir all limbs: Old men live backward in their dancing prime, And move in memory; small legs and arms With pleasant agitation purposeless Go up and down like pretty fruits in gales. All long in common for the expressive act Yet wait for it; as in the olden time Men waited for the bard to tell their thought. ' The dance! thedance! " is shouted all around. Now Pablo lifts the bow, Pepita now, Ready as bird that sees the sprinkled corn, When Juan nods and smiles, puts forth her foot And lifts her arm to wake the castanets. Juan advances, too, from out the ring And bends to quit his lute; for now the scene Is empty; Roldan, weary, gathers pence, Followed by Annibal with purse and stick. The carpet lies a coloured isle untrod, Inviting feet: " The dance, the dance," resounds, The bow entreats with slow melodic strain, And all the air with expectation yearns. Sudden, with gliding motion like a flame That through dim vapour makes a path of glory, A figure lithe, all white and saffron-robed, Flashed right across the circle, and now stood, With ripened arms uplift and regal head, Like some tall flower whose dark and intense heart VOL. xvn — 5 66 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Lies half within a tulip-tinted cup. Juan stood fixed and pale; Pepita stepped Backward within the ring: the voices fell From shouts insistent to more passive tones Half meaning welcome, half astonishment. " Lady Fedalma! — will she dance for us? " But she, sole swayed by impulse passionate, Feeling all life was music and all eyes The warming, quickening light that music makes, Moved as, in dance religious, Miriam, When on the Red Sea shore she raised her voice, And led the chorus of her people's joy; Or as the Trojan maids that reverent sang Watching the sorrow-crowned Hecuba: Moved in slow curves voluminous, gradual, Feeling and action flowing into one, In Eden's natural taintless marriage-bond; Ardently modest, sensuously pure, With young delight that wonders at itself And throbs as innocent as opening flowers, Knowing not comment, — soilless, beautiful. The spirit in her gravely glowing face With sweet community informs her limbs, Filling their fine gradation with the breath Of virgin majesty; as full vo welled words Are new impregnate with the master's thought. Even the chance-strayed delicate tendrils black, That backward, 'scape from out her wreathing hair, — Even the pliant folds that cling transverse When with obliquely soaring bend altern She seems a goddess quitting earth again — Gather expression — a soft undertone And resonance exquisite from the grand chord Of her harmoniously bodied soul. THE SPANISH GYPSY 67 At first a reverential silence guards The eager senses of the gazing crowd: They hold their breath, and live by seeing her. But soon the admiring tension finds relief, — Sighs of delight, applausive murmurs low, And stirrings gentle as of eared corn Or seed-bent grasses, when the ocean's breath Spreads landward. Even Juan is impelled By the swift-travelling movement : fear and doubt Give way before the hurrying energy; He takes his lute and strikes in fellowship, Filling more full the rill of melody Raised ever and anon to clearest flood By Pablo's voice, that dies away too soon, Like the sweet blackbird's fragmentary chant, Yet wakes again, with varying rise and fall, In songs that seem emergent memories Prompting brief utterance, — little cancions And villancicos, Andalusia-born. PABLO (sings) It was in the prime Of the sweet Spring-time. In the linnet's throat Trembled the love-note, And the love-stirred air Thrilled the blossoms there. Little shadows danced Each a tiny elf, Happy in large light And the thinnest self. It was but a minute In a far-off Spring, But each gentle thing, Sweetly-wooing linnet, 68 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Soft-thrilled hawthorn-tree, Happy shadowy elf With the thinnest self. Live still on in me. Oh, the sweet, sweet prime Of the past Spring-time! •And still the light is changing: high above Float soft pink clouds; others with deeper flush Stretch like flamingoes bending toward the south. Comes a more solemn brilliance o'er the sky, A meaning more intense upon the air, — The inspiration of the dying day. And Juan now, when Pablo's notes subside, Soothes the regretful ear, and breaks the pause With masculine voice in deep antiphony. JUAN (sings) Day is dying! Float, O song, Down the westward river, Requiem chanting to the Day, — Day, the mighty Giver. Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds Melted rubies sending Through the river and the sky, Earth and heaven blending; All the long-drawn earthly banks Up to cloud-land lifting: Slow between them drifts the swan, 'Twixt two heavens drifting. Wings half open, like a flow'r Inly deeper flushing, Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — Virgin proudly blushing. THE SPANISH GYPSY 69 Day is dying! Float, O swan, Down the ruby river; Follow, song, in requiem To the mighty Giver. The exquisite hour, the ardour of the crowd, The strains more plenteous, and the gathering might Of action passionate where no effort is, But self's poor gates open to rushing power That blends the inward ebb and outward vast, — All gathering influences culminate And urge Fedalma. Earth and heaven seem one, Life a glad trembling on the outer edge Of unknown rapture. Swifter now she moves, Filling the measure with a double beat And widening circle; now she seems to glow With more declared presence, glorified. Circling, she lightly bends and lifts on high The multitudinous-sounding tambourine, And makes it ring and boom, then lifts it higher Stretching her left arm beauteous ; now the crowd Exultant shouts, forgetting poverty In the rich moment of possessing her. But sudden, at one point, the exultant throng Is pushed and hustled, and then thrust apart: Something approaches, — something cuts the ring Of jubilant idlers, — startling as a streak From alien wounds across the blooming flesh Of careless sporting childhood. 'T is the band *Of Gypsy prisoners. Soldiers lead the van And make sparse flanking guard, aloof surveyed By gallant Lopez, stringent in command. The Gypsies chained in couples, all save one, Walk in dark file with grand bare legs and arms 70 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And savage melancholy in their eyes That star-like gleam from out black clouds of hair: Now they are full in sight, and now they stretch Right to the centre of the open space. Fedalma now, with gentle wheeling sweep Returning, like the loveliest of the Hours Strayed from her sisters, truant lingering, Faces again the centre, swings again The uplifted tambourine . . . When lo! with sound Stupendous throbbing, solemn as a voice Sent by the invisible choir of all the dead, ^ Tolls the great passing bell that calls to prayer For souls departed : at the mighty beat It seems the light sinks awe-struck, — 't is the note Of the sun's burial; speech and action pause; Religious silence and the holy sign Of everlasting memories (the sign Of death that turned to more diffusive life) Pass o'er the Pla9a. Little children gaze With lips apart, and feel the unknown god ; And the most men and women pray. Not all. The soldiers pray; the Gypsies stand unmoved As pagan statues with proud level gaze. --But he who wears a solitary chain Heading the file, has turned to face Fedalma. She motionless, with arm uplifted, guards The tambourine aloft (lest, sudden-lowered, Its trivial jingle mar the duteous pause), HReveres the general prayer, but prays not, stands With level glance meeting that Gypsy's eyes, That seem to her the sadness of the world "Rebuking her, the great bell's hidden thought Now first unveiled, — the sorrows unredeemed Of races outcast, scorned, and wandering. Why does he look at her? why she at him? THE SPANISH GYPSY 71 As if the meeting light between their eyes Made permanent union? His deep-knit brow, Inflated nostril, scornful lip compressed, '-Seem a dark hieroglyph of coming fate Written before her. Father Isidor Had terrible eyes, and was her enemy; She knew it and defied him ; all her soul Rounded and hardened in its separateness When they encountered. But this prisoner, — This Gypsy, passing, gazing casually, — Was he her enemy too? She stood all quelled, The impetuous joy that hurried in her veins Seemed backward rushing turned to chillest awe, Uneasy wonder, and a vague self-doubt. The minute brief stretched measureless, dream- filled By a dilated new-fraught consciousness. Now it was gone; the pious murmur ceased, The Gypsies all moved onward at command And careless noises blent confusedly. But the ring closed again, and many ears Waited for Pablo's music, many eyes Turned towards the carpet : it lay bare and dim, Twilight was there, — the bright Fedalma gojie. A handsome room in the Castle. On a table a rich jewel-casket. Silva had dropped his mail and with it all TKe heavier harness of his warlike cares. He had not seen Fedalma ; miser-like He hoarded through the hour a costlier joy By longing oft-repressed. Now it was earned; Aiid with observance wonted he would send To ask admission. Spanish gentlemen Who wooed fair dames of noble ancestry 72 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Did homage with rich tunics and slashed sleeves And outward-surging linen's costly snow; With broidered scarf transverse, and rosary Handsomely wrought to fit high-blooded prayer; So hinting in how deep respect they held That self they threw before their lady's feet. And Silva — that Fedalma's rate should stand No jot below the highest, that her love Might seem to all the royal gift it was — Turned every trifle in his mien and garb To scrupulous language, uttering to the world That since she loved him he went carefully, Bearing a thing so precious in his hand. A man of high- wrought strain, fastidious In his acceptance, dreading all delight That speedy dies and turns to carrion : His senses much exacting, deep instilled ••With keen imagination's difficult needs ; — Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes, Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream Snatched from the ground by wings and new- endowed With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. Silva was both the lion and the man ; First hesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, Or paving sprung, turned pallid at his deed And loosed the prize, paying his blood for naught. >A nature half -transformed, with qualities That oft bewrayed each other, elements Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. Haughty and generous, grave and passionate; With tidal moments of devoutest awe, Sinking anon to furthest ebb of doubt ; THE SPANISH GYPSY 73 Deliberating ever, till the sting Of a recurrent ardour made him rush Right against reasons that himself had drilled And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed Too proudly special for obedience, Too subtly pondering for mastery : Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity, Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. But look less curiously: life itself May not express us all, may leave the worst And, the best too, like tunes in mechanism Never awaked. In various catalogues Objects stand variously. Silva stands As a young Spaniard, handsome, noble, brave, With titles many, high in pedigree; Or, as a nature quiveringly poised In reach of storms, whose qualities may turn To murdered virtues that still walk as ghosts Within the shuddering soul and shriek remorse ; Or, as a lover ... In the screening time Of purple blossoms when the petals crowd And softly crush like cherub cheeks in heaven, Who thinks of greenly withered fruit and worms \ Oh the warm southern spring is beauteous! And in love's spring all good seems possible : No threats, all promise, brooklets ripple full And bathe the rushes, vicious crawling things Are pretty eggs, the sun shines graciously And parches not, the silent rain beats warm As childhood's kisses, days are young and grow, And earth seems in its sweet beginning time Fresh made for two who live in Paradise. Silva is in love's spring, its freshness breathed Within his soul along the dusty ways 74 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT While marching homeward; 't is around him now As in a garden fenced in for delight, — And he may seek delight. Smiling he lifts A whistle from his belt, but lets it fall Ere it has reached his lips, jarred by the sound Of ushers' knocking, and a voice that craves Admission for the Prior of San Domingo. PRICE (entering) You look perturbed, my son. I thrust myself Between you and some beckoning intent That wears a face more smiling than my own. DON SILVA Father, enough that you are here. I wait, As always, your commands, — nay, should have sought An early audience. PRIOR To give, I trust, Good reasons for your change of policy? DON SILVA Strong reasons, father. PRIOR Ay, but are they good? I have known reasons strong, but strongly evil. DON SILVA 'T is possible. I but deliver mine To your strict judgment. Late despatches sent With urgence by the Count of Bavien, THE SPANISH GYPSY 75 No hint on my part prompting, with besides The testified concurrence of the king And our Grand Master, have made peremptory The course which else had been but rational. Without the forces furnished by allies The siege of Guadix would be madness. More, El Zagal has his eyes upon Bedmar: Let him attempt it : in three weeks from hence The Master and the Lord of Aguilar Will bring their forces. We shall catch the Moors, TKe last gleaned clusters of their bravest men, As in a trap. You have my reasons, father. PRIOR And they sound well. But free-tongued rumour adds A pregnant supplement, — in substance this : That inclination snatches arguments To make indulgence seem judicious choice; That you, commanding in God's Holy War, Lift prayers to Satan to retard the fight And give you time for feasting, — wait a siege, Call daring enterprise impossible, Because you 'd marry ! You, a Spanish duke, Christ's general, would marry like a clown, Who, selling fodder dearer for the war, Is all the merrier; nay, like the brutes, Who know no awe to check their appetite, Coupling 'mid heaps of slain, while still in front The battle rages. DON SILVA Rumour on your lips Is eloquent, father. 76 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT PEIOE r^.v. Is she true? DON SILVA Perhaps. I seek to justify my public acts And not my private joy. Before the world Enough if I am faithful in command, Betray not by my deeds, swerve from no task My knightly vows constrain me to : herein I ask all men to test me. PEIOE Knightly vows? Is it by their constraint that you must marry? DON SILVA -Marriage is not a breach of them. I use A sanctioned liberty . . . yonr pardon, father, I need not teach you what the Church decrees. But facts may weaken texts, and so dry up The fount of eloquence. The Church relaxed Our Order's rule before I took the vows. PRICE Ignoble liberty! you snatch your rule From what God tolerates, not what he loves? — Inquire what lowest offering may suffice, Cheapen it meanly to an obolus, Buy, and then count the coin left in your purse For your debauch? — Measure obedience By scantest powers of feeble brethren Whom Holy Church indulges ? — Ask great Law, The rightful Sovereign of the human soul, THE SPANISH GYPSY 77 For what it pardons, not what it commands ? Oh fallen knighthood, penitent of high vows, Asking a charter to degrade itself! Such poor apology of rules relaxed Blunts not suspicion of that doubleness Your enemies tax you with. DON SILVA Oh, for the rest, Conscience is harder than our enemies, Knows more, accuses with more nicety, Nor needs to question Rumour if we fall Below the perfect model of our thought. I fear no outward arbiter. — You smile? PRIOR Ay, at the contrast 'twixt your portraiture And the true image of your conscience, shown As now I see it in your acts. I see A drunken sentinel who gives alarm At his own shadow, but when sealers snatch His weapon from his hand smiles idiot-like At games he 's dreaming of. DON SILVA A parable! The husk is rough, — holds something bitter, doubtless. PRIOR Oh, the husk gapes with meaning over-ripe. You boast a conscience that controls your deeds, Watches your knightly armour, guards your rank From stain of treachery, — you, helpless slave, 78 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Whose will lies nerveless in the clutch of lust, — Of blind mad passion, — passion itself most helpless, Storm-driven, like the monsters of the sea. Oh famous conscience! Pause there ! Leave unsaid Aught that will match that text. More were too much, Even from holy lips. I own no love But such as guards my honour, since it guards Hers whom I love ! I suffer no foul words To stain the gift I lay before her feet ; And, being hers, my honour is more safe. PRIOR Verse-makers' talk ! fit for a world of rhymes, Where facts are feigned to tickle idle ears, Where good and evil play at tournament And end in amity, — a world of lies, — A carnival of words where every year Stale falsehoods serve fresh men. Your honour safe? What honour has a man with double bonds ? Honour is shifting as the shadows are To souls that turn their passions into laws. A Christian knight who weds an infidel . . . DON SILVA (fiercely) An infidel! PRIOR May one day spurn the Cross, And call that honour ! — one day find his sword THE SPANISH GYPSY 79 Stained with his brother's blood, and call that honour ! Apostates' honour? — harlots' chastity! Renegades' faithfulness ? — Iscariot's ! DON SILVA Strong words and burning; but they scorch not me. Fedalma is a daughter of the Church, — Has been baptized and nurtured in the faith. PRIOR -Ay, as a thousand Jewesses, who yet Are brides of Satan in a robe of flames. DON SILVA Fedalma is no Jewess, bears no marks That tell of Hebrew blood. PRIOR She bears the marks Of races unbaptized, that never bowed Before the holy signs, were never moved By stirrings of the sacramental gifts. DON SILVA (scornfully) Holy accusers practise palmistry, And, other witness lacking, read the skin. PRIOR I read a record deeper than the skin. What ! Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips Descend through generations, and the soul That moves within our frame like God in worlds — 80 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Convulsing, urging, melting, withering — Imprint no record, leave no documents, Of her great history? Shall men bequeath The fancies of their palate to their sons, And shall the shudder of restraining awe, The slow- wept tears of contrite memory, Faith's prayerful labour, and the food divine Of fasts ecstatic, — shall these pass away Like wind upon the waters, tracklessly? Shall the mere curl of eyelashes remain And god-enshrining symbols leave no trace -Of tremors reverent? — That maiden's blood Is as unchristian as the leopard's. DON SILVA Say, Unchristian as the Blessed Virgin's blood Before the angel spoke the word, " All hail! " PRIOR (smiling bitterly) Say I not truly? See, your passion weaves Already blasphemies! DON SILVA 'T is you provoke them. PRIOR I strive, as still the Holy Spirit strives, To move the will perverse. But, failing this, God commands other means to save our blood, To save Castilian glory, — nay, to save The name of Christ from blot of traitorous deeds. THE SPANISH GYPSY 81 DON SILVA Of traitorous deeds ! Age, kindred, and your cowl Give an ignoble license to your tongue. As for your threats, fulfil them at your peril. 'T is you, not I, will gibbet our great name To rot in infamy. If I am strong In patience now, trust me, I can be strong Then in defiance. PRIOR Miserable man! Your strength will turn to anguish, like the strength Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood? You are a Christian, with the Christian awe In every vein. A Spanish noble, born To serve your people and your people's faith. Strong, are you? Turn your back upon the Cross, — Its shadow is before you. Leave your place: Quit the great ranks of knighthood : you will walk -Forever with a tortured double self, A self that will be hungry while you feast, Will blush with shame while you are glorified, Will feel the ache and chill of desolation, Even in the very bosom of your love. Mate yourself with this woman, fit for what? To make the sport of Moorish palaces A lewd Herodias . . . DON SILVA Stop ! no other man, Priest though he were, had had his throat left free For passage of those words. I would have clutched His serpent's neck, and flung him out to hell ! A monk must needs defile the name of love: VOL. XVII 6 82 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT He knows it but as tempting devils paint it. You think to scare my love from its resolve With arbitrary consequences, strained By rancorous effort from the thinnest motes Of possibility? — cite hideous lists Of sins irrelevant, to frighten me With bugbears' names, as women fright a child? Poor pallid wisdom, taught by inference From blood-drained life, where phantom terrors rule, And all achievement is to leave undone ! Paint the day dark, make sunshine cold to me, Abolish the earth's fairness, prove it all A fiction of my eyes, — then, after that, Profane Fedalma. PRIOR Oh, there is no need : She has profaned herself. Go, raving man, •^And see her dancing now. Go, see your bride Flaunting her beauties grossly in the gaze Of vulgar idlers, — eking out the show Made in the Pla9a by a mountebank. I hinder you no further. DON SILVA It is false! PRIOR Go, prove it false, then. [Father Isidor Drew on his cowl and turned away. The face That flashed anathemas, in swift eclipse Seemed Silva's vanished confidence. In haste THE SPANISH GYPSY 83 He rushed unsignalled through the corridor To where the Duchess once, Fedalma now, Had residence retired from din of arms, — Knocked, opened, found all empty, — said With muffled voice, "Fedalma!" — called more loud, More oft on Inez, the old trusted nurse, — Then searched the terrace-garden, calling still, But heard no answering sound, and saw no face Save painted faces staring all unmoved By agitated tones. He hurried back, Giving half -conscious orders as he went To page and usher, that they straight should seek Lady Fedalma; then with stinging shame Wished himself silent; reached again the room Where still the Father's menace seemed to hang Thickening the air; snatched cloak and plumed hat, And grasped, not knowing why, his poniard's hilt ; Then checked himself and said: — ] If he spoke truth! To know were wound enough, — to see the truth Were fire upon the wound. It must be false I His hatred saw amiss, or snatched mistake In other men's report. I am a fool! But where can she be gone? gone secretly? And in my absence? Oh, she meant no wrong! -I am a fool! — But where can she be gone? With only Inez? Oh, she meant no wrong! I swear she never meant it. There 's no wrong But she would make it momentary right By innocence in doing it. ... And yet, What is our certainty? Why, knowing all That is not secret. Mighty confidence! 84 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT One pulse of Time makes the base hollow, — sends The towering certainty we built so high Toppling in fragments meaningless. What is — What will be — must be — pooh ! they wait the key Of that which is not yet ; all other keys Are made of our conjectures, take their sense From humours fooled by hope, or by despair. Know what is good? Oh God, we know not yet If bliss itself is not young misery With fangs swift growing. . . . But some outward harm May even now be hurting, grieving her. Oh, I must search, — face shame, — if shame be there. Here, Perez! hasten to Don Alvar, — tell him Lady Fedalma must be sought, — is lost, — Has met, I fear, some mischance. He must send Towards divers points. I go myself to seek First in the town. . . . [As Perez oped the door, Then moved aside for passage of the Duke, Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud Of serge and linen, and, outbeaming bright, Advanced a pace towards Silva, — but then paused, For he had started and retreated ; she, Quick and responsive as the subtle air To change in him, divined that she must wait Until they were alone : they stood and looked. -Within the Duke was struggling confluence Of feelings manifold, — pride, anger, dread, Meeting in stormy rush with sense secure That she was present, with the satisfied thirst Of gazing love, with trust inevitable As in beneficent virtues of the light And all earth's sweetness, that Fedalma's soul THE SPANISH GYPSY 85 Was free from blemishing purpose. Yet proud wrath Leaped in dark flood above the purer stream That strove to drown it : Anger seeks its prey, — Something to tear with sharp-edged tooth and claw, Likes not to go off hungry, leaving Love To feast on milk and honeycomb at will. Silva's heart said, he must be happy soon, She being there ; but to be happy, — first He must be angry, having cause. Yet love Shot like a stifled cry of tenderness All through the harshness he would fain have given To the dear word,] DON SILVA Fedalma ! FEDALMA O my Lord! You are come back, and I was wandering ! DON SILVA (coldly, but with suppressed agitation) You meant I should be ignorant. FEDALMA Oh no, I should have told you after, — not before, Lest you should hinder me. DON SILVA Then my known wish Can make no hindrance? 86 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT, FEDALMA (archly) That depends On what the wish may be. You wished me once Not to uncage the birds. I meant to obey : But in a moment something — something stronger Forced me to let them out. It did no harm. They all came back again, — the silly birds ! I told you, after. DON SILVA (with haughty coldness) Will you tell me now What was the prompting stronger than my wish That made you wander? FEDALMA (advancing a step towards him, with a sudden look of anxiety) Are you angry? DON SILVA (smiling bitterly) Angry? A man deep -wounded may feel too much pain To feel much anger. FEDALMA (still more anxiously) You — deep-wounded? DON SILVA Yes! Have I not made your place and dignity The very heart of my ambition? You, — No enemy could do it, — you alone Can strike it mortally. THE SPANISH GYPSY 87 FED ALMA Nay, Silva, nay. Has some one told you false? I only went To see the world with Inez, — see the town, The people, everything. It was no harm. I did not mean to dance : it happened so At last . . . DON SILVA O God, it 's true, then! — true that you, A maiden nurtured as rare flowers are, The very air of heaven sifted fine Lest any mote should mar your purity, Have flung yourself out on the dusty way For common eyes to see your beauty soiled! own it true, — you danced upon the FEDALMA (proudly) Yes, it is true. I was not wrong to dance. The air was filled with music, with a song That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide, — The glowing light entering through eye and ear, — That seemed our love, — mine, yours, — they are but one, — Trembling through all my limbs, as fervent words Tremble within my soul and must be spoken. And all the people felt a common joy And shouted for the dance. A brightness soft As of the angels moving down to see Illumined the broad space. The joy, the life Around, within me, were one heaven: I longed To blend them visibly: I longed to dance Before the people, — be as mounting flame To all that burned within them 1 Nay, I danced ; 88 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT There was no longing: I but did the deed Being moved to do it. (As FEDALMA speaks,, she and DON SILVA are gradually drawn nearer to each other.) Oh, I seemed new- waked To life in unison with a multitude, — Feeling my soul upborne by all their souls, Floating within their gladness! Soon I lost All sense of separateness : Fedalma died As a star dies, and melts into the light. I was not, but joy was, and love and triumph. Nay, my dear lord, I never could do aught But I must feel you present. And once done, Why, you must love it better than your wish. I pray you, say so, — say, it was not wrong ! (While FEDALMA has been making this last appeal, they have gradually come close together, and at last embrace.) DON SILVA (holding her hands) Dangerous rebel! if the world without Were pure as that within . . . but 't is a book Wherein you only read the poesy And miss all wicked meanings. Hence the need For trust — obedience — call it what you will — Towards him whose life will be your guard, — towards me Who now am soon to be your husband. FEDALMA Yes! That very thing that when I am your wife I shall be something different, — shall be I know not what, a duchess with new thoughts, — THE SPANISH GYPSY 89 For nobles never think like common men, Nor wives like maidens (oh, you wot not yet How much I note, with all my ignorance) , — That very thing has made me more resolve To have my will before I am your wife. How can the Duchess ever satisfy Fedalma's unwed eyes? and so to-day I scolded Inez till she cried and went. DON SILVA It was a guilty weakness : she knows well That since you pleaded to be left more free From tedious tendance and control of dames Whose rank matched better with your destiny, Her charge — my trust — was weightier. FED ALMA Nay, my lord, You must not blame her, dear old nurse. She cried. Why, you would have consented too, at last. I said such things ! I was resolved to go, And see the streets, the shops, the men at work, The women, little children, — everything, Just as it is when nobody looks on. And I have done it! We were out four hours. I feel so wise. DON SILVA Had you but seen the town, You innocent naughtiness, not shown yourself, — Shown yourself dancing, — you bewilder me ! — Frustrate my judgment with strange negatives That seem like poverty, and yet are wealth In precious womanliness, beyond the dower Of other women: wealth in virgin gold, 90 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Outweighing all their petty currency. You daring modesty! You shrink no more From gazing men than from the gazing flowers That, dreaming sunshine, open as you pass. FED ALMA No, I should like the world to look at me With eyes of love that make a second day. I think your eyes would keep the life in me Though I had naught to feed on else. Their blue Is better than the heavens', — hold more love For me, Fedalma, — is a little heaven For this one little world that looks up now. DON SILVA O precious little world ! you make the heaven As the earth makes the sky. But, dear, all eyes, Though looking even on you, have not a glance That cherishes . . . FEDALMA Ah no, I meant to tell you, — Tell how my dancing ended with a pang. There came a man, one among many more, But he came first, with iron on his limbs. And when the bell tolled, and the people prayed, And I stood pausing, — then he looked at me. tO Silva, such a man! I thought he rose I From the dark place of long-imprisoned souls, •^To say that Christ had never come to them. It was a look to shame a seraph's joy And make him sad in heaven. It found me there, — Seemed to have travelled far to find me there And grasp me, — claim this festal life of mine As heritage of sorrow, chill my blood THE SPANISH GYPSY 91 With the cold iron of some unknown bonds. The gladness hurrying full within my veins Was sudden frozen, and I danced no more. But seeing you let loose the stream of joy, Mingling the present with the sweetest past. Yet, Silva, still I see him. Who is he? Who are those prisoners with him? Are they Moors? DON SILVA No, they are Gypsies, strong and cunning knaves, A double gain to us bv the Moors' loss : The man you mean — their chief — is an ally The infidel will miss. His look might chase A herd of monks, and make them fly more swift Than from St. Jerome's lion. Such vague fear, Such bird-like tremors when that savage glance Turned full upon you in your height of joy Was natural, was not worth emphasis. Forget it, dear. This hour is worth whole days When we are sundered. Danger urges us To quick resolve. FED ALMA What danger? What resolve? I never felt chill shadow in my heart Until this sunset. DON SILVA A dark enmity Plots how to sever us. And our defence Is speedy marriage, secretly achieved, Then publicly declared. Beseech you, dear, Grant me this confidence ; do my will in this, Trusting the reasons why I overset 92 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT All my own airy building raised so high Of bridal honours, marking when you step From off your maiden throne to come to me And bear the yoke of love. There is great need. I hastened home, carrying this prayer to you Within my heart. The bishop is my friend, Furthers our marriage, holds in enmity — Some whom we love not and who love not us. By this night's moon our priest will be despatched From Jaen. I shall march an escort strong To meet him. Ere a second sun from this Has risen — you consenting — we may wed. FED ALMA None knowing that we wed? DON SILVA Beforehand none Save Inez and Don Alvar. But the vows Once safely binding us, my household all Shall know you as their Duchess. No man then Can aim a blow at you but through my breast, And what stains you must stain our ancient name ; If any hate you I will take his hate And wear it as a glove upon my helm; Nay, God himself will never have the power To strike you solely and leave me unhurt, He having made us one. Now put the seal Of your dear lips on that. FED ALMA A solemn kiss? — Such as I gave you when you came that day From Cordova, when first we said we loved? When you had left the ladies of the court THE SPANISH GYPSY 93 For thirst to see me; and you told me so; And then I seemed to know why I had lived. I never knew before. A kiss like that? DON SILVA Yes, yes, you face divine! When was our kiss Like any other? FED ALMA Nay, I cannot tell What other kisses are. But that one kiss Remains upon my lips. The angels, spirits, Creatures with finer sense, may see it there. And now another kiss that will not die, Saying, To-morrow I shall be your wife! (They kiss, and pause a moment, looking earnestly in each other's eyes. Then FE- DALMA., breaking away from DON SILVA, stands at a little distance from him with a look of roguish delight.) Now I am glad I saw the town to-day Before I am a Duchess, — glad I gave This poor Fedalma all her wish. For once, Long years ago, I cried when Inez said, ' You are no more a little girl; " I grieved To part forever from that little girl And all her happy world so near the ground. It must be sad to outlive aught we love. So I shall grieve a little for these days Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet, And none will come just like them. Perhaps the wind Wails so in winter for the summers dead, And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva? 94 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT (She comes nearer to him again, and lays her hand on his arm, looking up at him with melancholy. ) DON SILVA Why, dearest, you began in merriment, And end as sadly as a widowed bird. Some touch mysterious has new-tuned your soul To melancholy sequence. You soared high In that wild flight of rapture when you danced, And now you droop. 'T is arbitrary grief. Surfeit of happiness, that mourns for loss Of unwed love, which does but die like seed For fuller harvest of our tenderness. We in our wedded life shall know no loss. We shall new-date our years. What went before Will be the time of promise, shadows, dreams; But this, full revelation of great love. For rivers blent take in a broader heaven, And we shall blend our souls. Away with grief! When this dear head shall wear the double crown Of wife and Duchess, — spiritually crowned With sworn espousal before God and man, — Visibly crowned with jewels that bespeak The chosen sharer of my heritage, — My love will gather perfectness, as thoughts That nourish us to magnanimity Grow perfect with more perfect utterance, Gathering full-shapen strength. And then these gems, (DON SILVA draws FEDALMA towards the jewel-casket on the table, and opens it.) Helping the utterance of my soul's full choice, Will be the words made richer by just use, And have new meaning in their lustrousnesa. THE SPANISH GYPSY 95 You know these jewels; they are precious signs Of long- transmitted honour, heightened still By worthy wearing ; and I give them you, — Ask you to take them, — place our house's trust In her sure keeping whom my heart nas found Worthiest, most beauteous. These rubies — see — Were falsely placed if not upon your brow. (FEDALMA, while DON SILVA holds open the casket, bends over it, looking at the jewels with delight.) FEDALMA Ah, I remember them. In childish days I felt as if they were alive and breathed. I used to sit with awe and look at them. And now they will be mine! I '11 put them on. Help me, my lord, and you shall see me now Somewhat as I shall look at Court with you, That we may know if I shall bear them well. I have a fear sometimes : I think your love Has never paused within your eyes to look, And only passes through them into mine. But when the Court is looking, and the queen, Your eyes will follow theirs. Oh, if you saw That I was other than you wished, — 't were death ! DON SILVA (taking up a jewel and placing it against her ear) Nay, let us try. Take out your ear-ring, sweet. This ruby glows with longing for your ear. FEDALMA (taking out her ear-rings, and then lift- ing up the other jewels, one by one) . Pray, fasten in the rubies. 96 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT (DON SILVA begins to put in the ear-ring.) I was right! These gems have life in them: their colours speak, Say what words fail of. So do many things, — The scent of jasmine, and the fountain's plash, The moving shadows on the far-off hills, The slanting moonlight and our clasping hands. 0 Silva, there 's an ocean round our words That overflows and drowns them. Do you know Sometimes when we sit silent, and the air Breathes gently on us from the orange-trees, It seems that with the whisper of a word Our souls must shrink, get poorer, more apart. Is it not true? DON SILVA Yes, dearest, it is true. Speech is but broken light upon the depth Of the unspoken : even your loved words Float in the larger meaning of your voice As something dimmer. (He is still trying in vain to fasten the second ear-ring, while she has stooped again over the casket.) FED ALMA (raising her head) Ah! your lordly hands Will never fix that jewel. Let me try. Women's small finger-tips have eyes. DON SILVA No, no! 1 like the task, only you must be still. THE SPANISH GYPSY 97 stands perfectly still, clasping her hands together while he fastens the sec- ond ear-ring. Suddenly a clanking noise is heard without.) FED ALMA (starting with an expression of pain) What is that sound? — that jarring cruel sound? 'T is there, — outside. (She tries to start away towards the window but DON SILVA detains her.) DON SILVA Oh heed it not, it comes From workmen in the outer gallery. FEDALMA It is the sound of fetters : sound of work Is not so dismal. Hark, they pass along! I know it is those Gypsy prisoners. I saw them, heard their chains. Oh horrible, To be in chains! Why, I with all my bliss Have longed sometimes to fly and be at large, Have felt imprisoned in my luxury With servants for my jailers. O my lord, Do you not wish the world were different? DON SILVA It will be different when this war has ceased. You, wedding me, will make it different, Making one life more perfect. VOL. xvn — 7 98 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FEDALMA That is true! And I shall beg much kindness at your hands For those who are less happy than ourselves. — (Brightening.) Oh, I shall rule you! ask for many things Before the world, which you will not deny For very pride, lest men should say, " The Duke Holds lightly by his Duchess ; he repents His humble choice." (She breaks away from him and returns to the jewels , taking up a necklace, and clasp- ing it on her neck, while he takes a circlet of diamonds and rubies and raises it towards her head as he speaks.) DON SILVA Doubtless, I shall persist In loving you, to disappoint the world ; Out of pure obstinacy feel myself Happiest of men. Now, take the coronet. (He places the circlet on her head.) The diamonds want more light. See, from this lamp I can set tapers burning. FEDALMA Tell me, now, When all these cruel wars are at an end, And when we go to Court at Cordova, Or Seville, or Toledo, — wait awhile, I must be farther off for you to see, — THE SPANISH GYPSY 99 (She retreats to a distance from him, and then advances slowly.) Now think (I would the tapers gave more light!) If when you show me at the tournaments Among the other ladies, they will say, " Duke Silva is well matched. His bride was naught, Was some poor foster-child, no man knows what; Yet is her carriage noble, all her robes Are worn with grace: she might have been well born." Will they say so? Think now we are at Court, And all eyes bent on me. DON SILVA Fear not, my Duchess ! Some knight who loves may say his lady-love Is fairer, being fairest. None can say Don Silva's bride might better fit her rank. You will make rank seem natural as kind, As eagle's plumage or the lion's might. A crown upon your brow would seem God-made. FEDALMA Then I am glad ! I shall try on to-night The other jewels, — have the tapers lit, And see the diamonds sparkle. (She goes to the casket again.) Here is gold, — A necklace of pure gold, — most finely wrought. (She takes out a large gold necklace and holds it up before her, then turns to DON SILVA.) But this is one that you have worn, my lord? 100 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT DON SILVA No, love, I never wore it. Lay it down. (He puts the necklace gently out of her hand, then joins both her hands and holds them up between his own.) You must not look at jewels any more, But look at me. FEDALMA (looking up at him) O you dear heaven! I should see naught if you were gone. 'T is true My mind is too much given to gauds, — to things That fetter thought within this narrow space. That comes of fear. DON SILVA What fear? FEDALMA Fear of myself. For when I walk upon the battlements And see the river travelling toward the plain, The mountains screening all the world beyond, A longing comes that haunts me in my dreams, — Dreams where I seem to spring from off the walls, And fly far, far away, until at last I find myself alone among the rocks, Remember then that I have left you, — try To fly back to you, — and my wings are gone ! DON SILVA A wicked dream! If ever I left you, Even in dreams, it was some demon dragged me, And with fierce struggles I awaked myself. THE SPANISH GYPSY 101 FED ALMA It is a hateful dream, and when it comes, — I mean, when in my waking hours there comes That longing to be free, I am afraid: I run down to my chamber, plait my hair, Weave colours in it, lay out all my gauds, And in my mind make new ones prettier. You see I have two minds, and both are foolish. Sometimes a torrent rushing through my soul Escapes in wild strange wishes; presently, It dwindles to a little babbling rill And plays among the pebbles and the flowers. Inez will have it I lack broidery, Says naught else gives content to noble maids. But I have never broidered, — never will. No, when I am a Duchess and a wife I shall ride forth — may I not ? — by your side. DON SILVA Yes, you shall ride upon a palfrey, black To match Bavieca. Not Queen Isabel Will be a sight more gladdening to men's eyes, Than my dark queen Fedalma. FED ALMA Ah, but you, You are my king, and I shall tremble still With some great fear that throbs within my love. Does your love fear? DON SILVA Ah, yes! all preciousness To mortal hearts is guarded by a fear. All love fears loss, and most that loss supreme. 102 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Its own perfection, — seeing, feeling change From high to lower, dearer to less dear. Can love be careless? If we lost our love What should we find? — with this sweet Past torn off, Our lives deep scarred just where their beauty lay? The best we found thenceforth were still a worse : The only better is a Past that lives On through an added Present, stretching still In hope unchecked by shaming memories To life's last breath. And so I tremble too Before my queen Fedalma. FED ALMA That is just. 'T were hard of Love to make us women fear And leave you bold. Yet Love is not quite even. For feeble creatures, little birds and fawns, Are shaken more by fear, while large strong things Can bear it stoutly. So we women still Are not well dealt with. Yet would I choose to be Fedalma loving Silva. You, my lord, Hold the worse share, since you must love poor me, But is it what we love, or how we love, That makes true good? DON SILVA O subtlety! for me 'T is what I love determines how I love. The goddess with pure rites reveals herself And makes pure worship. FEDALMA Do you worship me? THE SPANISH GYPSY 103 DON SILVA Ay, with that best of worship which adores Goodness adorable. FED ALMA (archly) Goodness obedient, Doing your will, devoutest worshipper? DON SILVA Yes, — listening to this prayer. This very night I shall go forth. And you will rise with day And wait for me? FED ALMA Yes. I shall surely come. And then we shall be married. Now I go To audience fixed in Abderahman's tower. Farewell, love! (They embrace.) FED ALMA Some chill dread possesses me! DON SILVA Oh, confidence has oft been evil augury, So dread may hold a promise. Sweet, farewell! I shall send tendance as I pass, to bear This casket to your chamber. — One more kiss. (Exit.) 104 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FEDALMA (when DON SILVA is gone, returning to the casket, and looking dreamily at the jewels) Yes, now that good seems less impossible ! Now it seems true that I shall be his wife, Be ever by his side, and make a part In all his purposes. . . . These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow! Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud ; Or do they only dream of wider life, Ache from intenseness, yearn to burst the wall Compact of crystal splendour, and to flood Some wider space with glory? Poor, poor gems! We must be patient in our prison-house, And find our space in loving. Pray you, love me. Let us be glad together. And you, gold, — (She takes up the gold necklace.) You wondrous necklace, — will you love me too, And be my amulet to keep me safe From eyes that hurt? (She spreads out the necklace, meaning to clasp it on her neck. Then pauses, startled, holding it before her.) Why, it is magical! He says he never wore it, — yet these lines, — Nay, if he had, I should remember well 'T was he, no other. And these twisted lines, — They seem to speak to me as writing would, To bring a message from the dead, dead past. What is their secret? Are they characters? I never learned them; yet they stir some sense That once I dreamed, — I have forgotten what. Or was it life? Perhaps I lived before THE SPANISH GYPSY 105 In some strange world where first my soul was shaped, And all this passionate love, and joy, and pain, That come, I know not whence, and sway my deeds, Are dim yet mastering memories, blind yet strong, That this world stirs within me; as this chain Stirs some strange certainty of visions gone, And all my mind is as an eye that stares Into the darkness painfully. (While FEDALMA has been looking at the necklace, JUAN has entered, and finding himself unobserved by her, says at last,) Senora ! FEDALMA starts, and gathering the necklace together turns round — 0 Juan, it is you ! JUAN I met the Duke, — Had waited long without, no matter why, — And when he ordered one to wait on you And carry forth a burden you would give, 1 prayed for leave to be the servitor. Don Silva owes me twenty granted wishes That I have never tendered, lacking aught That I could wish for and a Duke could grant; But this one wish to serve you, weighs as much As twenty other longings. FEDALMA (smiling) That sounds well. You turn your speeches prettily as songs. But I will not forget the many days 106 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT You have neglected me. Your pupil learns But little from you now. Her studies flag. The Duke says, " That is idle Juan's way : Poets must rove, — are honey-sucking birds And know not constancy." Said he quite true? JUAN O lady, constancy has kind and rank. One man's is lordly, plump, and bravely clad, Holds its head high, and tells the world its name: Another man's is beggared, must go bare, And shiver through the world, the jest of all, But that it puts the motley on, and plays Itself the jester. But I see you hold The Gypsy's necklace: it is quaintly wrought. FED ALMA The Gypsy's? Do you know its history? JUAN No further back than when I saw it taken From off its wearer's neck, — the Gypsy chief's. FEDALMA (eagerly) What ! he who paused, at tolling of the bell, Before me in the Pla£a? JUAN Yes, I saw His look fixed on you. FEDALMA Know you aught of him? THE SPANISH GYPSY 107 JUAN Something and nothing, — as I know the sky, Or some great story of the olden time That hides a secret. I have oft talked with him. He seems to say much, yet is but a wizard Who draws down rain by sprinkling; throws me out Some pregnant text that urges comment; casts A sharp-hooked question, baited with such skill It needs must catch the answer. FEDALMA It is hard That such a man should be a prisoner, — Be chained to work. JUAN Oh, he is dangerous! Granada with this Zarca for a king Might still maim Christendom. He is of those Who steal the keys from snoring Destiny And make the prophets lie. A Gypsy, too, Suckled by hunted beasts, whose mother-milk Has filled his veins with hate. FEBALMA I thought his eyes Spoke not of hatred, — seemed to say he bore The pain of those who never could be saved. What if the Gypsies are but savage beasts And must be hunted? — let them be set free, Have benefit of chase, or stand at bay And fight for life and offspring. Prisoners! Oh, they have made their fires beside the streams, 108 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Their walls have been the rocks, the pillared pines, Their roof the living sky that breathes with light : They may well hate a cage, like strong-winged birds, Like me, who have no wings, but only wishes. I will beseech the Duke to set them free. JUAN Pardon me, lady, if I seem to warn, Or try to play the sage. What if the Duke Loved not to hear of Gypsies? if their name Were poisoned for him once, being used amiss? I speak not as of fact. Our nimble souls Can spin an insubstantial universe Suiting our mood, and call it possible, Sooner than see one grain with eye exact And give strict record of it. Yet by chance Our fancies may be truth and make us seers. 'T is a rare teeming world, so harvest-full, Even guessing ignorance may pluck some fruit. Note what I say no further than will stead The siege you lay. I would not seem to tell Aught that the Duke may think and yet withhold: It were a trespass in me. FEDALMA Fear not, Juan. Your words bring daylight with them when you speak. I understand your care. But I am brave, — Oh, and so cunning ! — always I prevail. Now, honoured Troubadour, if you will be Your pupil's servant, bear this casket hence. THE SPANISH GYPSY 109 Nay, not the necklace : it is hard to place. Pray go before me ; Inez will be there. (Exit JUAN with the casket.) FED ALMA (looking again at the necklace) It is his past clings to you, not my own. If we have each our angels, good and bad, Fates, separate from ourselves, who act for us When we are blind, or sleep, then this man's fate, Hovering about the thing he used to wear, Has laid its grasp on mine appealingly. Dangerous, is he? — well, a Spanish knight Would have his enemy strong, — defy, not bind him. I can dare all things when my soul is moved By something hidden that possesses me. If Silva said this man must keep his chains I should find ways to free him, — disobey And free him as I did the birds. But no! As soon as we are wed, I '11 put my prayer, And he will not deny me: he is good. Oh, I shall have much power as well as joy! Duchess Fedalma may do what she will. A Street by the Castle. JUAN leans against a para- pet, in moonlight, and touches his lute half un- consciously. PEPITA stands on tiptoe watching him, and then advances till her shadow falls in front of him. He looks towards her. A piece of white drapery thrown over her head catches the moonlight. JUAN Ha ! my Pepita ! see how thin and long Your shadow is. 'T is so your ghost will be, When you are dead. 110 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT PEPITA (crossing herself) Dead ! — Oh the blessed saints ! You would be glad, then, if Pepita died? JUAN Glad! why? Dead maidens are not merry. Ghosts Are doleful company. I like you living. PEPITA I think you like me not. I wish you did. Sometimes you sing to me and make me dance. Another time you take no heed of me, Not though I kiss my hand to you and smile. But Andres would be glad if I kissed him. JUAN My poor Pepita, I am old. PEPITA No, no. You have no wrinkles. JUAN Yes, I have — within; The wrinkles are within, my little bird. Why, I have lived through twice a thousand years, And kept the company of men whose bones Crumbled before the blessed Virgin lived. PEPITA (crossing herself) Nay, God defend us, that is wicked talk! You say it but to scorn me. (With a sob.) I will go. THE SPANISH GYPSY 111 JUAN Stay, little pigeon. I am not unkind. Come, sit upon the wall. Nay, never cry. Give me your cheek to kiss. There, cry no more I (PEPITA, sitting on the low parapet., puts up her cheek to JUAN, who kisses it, putting his hand under her chin. She takes his hand and kisses it.) PEPITA I like to kiss your hand. It is so good, — So smooth and soft. JUAN Well, well, I '11 sing to you. PEPITA A pretty song, loving and merry? JUAN Yes. ( JUAN sings) Memory, Tell to me What is fair, Past compare, In the land of Tubal? Is it Spring's Lovely things, Blossoms white, Rosy dight? Then it is Pepita. 112 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Summer's crest Red- gold tressed, Corn-flowers peeping under? — Idle noons, Lingering moons, Sudden cloud, Lightning's shroud, Sudden rain, Quick again Smiles where late was thunder? — * Are all these Made to please? So too is Pepita. Autumn's prime, Apple-time, Smooth cheek round, Heart all sound? — Is it this You would kiss? Then it is Pepita. You can bring No sweet thing, But my mind Still shall find It is my Pepita. Memory Says to me It is she, — She is fair Past compare In the land of Tubal. THE SPANISH GYPSY 113 PEPITA (seizing JUAN'S hand again) Oh, then, you do love me? JUAN Yes, in the song. PEPITA (sadly) Not out of it? — not love me out of it? JUAN Only a little out of it, my bird. When I was singing I was Andres, say, Or one who loves you better still than Andres. PEPITA Not yourself? JUAN No! PEPITA (throwing his hand down pettishly) Then take it back again! I will not have it! JUAN Listen, little one. Juan is not a living man all by himself: His life is breathed in him by other men, And they speak out of him. He is their voice. Juan's own life he gave once quite away. It was Pepita's lover singing then, — not Juan. VOL. xvn — 8 114 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT We old, old poets, if we kept our hearts, Should hardly know them from another man's. They shrink to make room for the many more We keep within us. There, now, — one more kiss, And then go home again. PEPITA (a little frightened, after letting JUAN kiss her) You are not wicked? JUAN Ask your confessor, — tell him what I said. (PEPITA goes., while JUAN thrums his lute again, and sings. ) Came a pretty maid By the moon's pure light. Loved me well, she said, Eyes with tears all bright, A pretty maid! But too late she strayed, Moonlight pure was there; She was naught but shade Hiding the more fair, The heavenly maid! A vaulted room all stone. The light shed from a high lamp. Wooden chairs, a desk, book- shelves. The PRIOR, in white frock, a black rosary with a crucifix of ebony and ivory at his side, is walking up and down, holding a written paper in his hands, which are clasped behind him. THE SPANISH GYPSY 115 What if this witness lies? he says he heard her Counting her blasphemies on a rosary, And in a bold discourse with Salomo, Say that the Host was naught but ill-mixed flour, That it was mean to pray, — she never prayed. I know the man who wrote this for a cur, Who follows Don Diego, sees life 's good In scraps my nephew flings to him. What then? Particular lies may speak a general truth. I guess him false, but know her heretic, — Know her for Satan's instrument, bedecked With heathenish charms, luring the souls of men To damning trust in good unsanctified. Let her be prisoned, — questioned, — she will give Witness against herself, that were this false, (He looks at the paper again and reads, then again thrusts it behind him. ) The matter and the colour are not false : The form concerns the witness, not the judge; For proof is gathered by the sifting mind, Not given in crude and formal circumstance. Suspicion is a heaven-sent lamp, and I, — I, watchman of the Holy Office, bear That lamp in trust. I will keep faithful watch. The Holy Inquisition's discipline Is mercy, saving her, if penitent, — God grant it ! — else, — root up the poison-plant, Though 't were a lily with a golden heart ! This spotless maiden with her pagan soul Is the arch-enemy's trap : he turns his back On all the prostitutes, and watches her To see her poison men with false belief In rebel virtues. She has poisoned Silva ; His shifting mind, dangerous in fitfulness, Strong in the contradiction of itself, 116 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Carries his young ambitions wearily, As holy vows regretted. Once he seemed The fresh-oped flower of Christian knighthood, born For feats of holy daring ; and I said : Ik That half of life which I, as monk, renounce, Shall be f ulfilled in him : Silva will be That saintly noble, that wise warrior, That blameless excellence in worldly gifts I would have been, had I not asked to live The higher life of man impersonal Who reigns o'er all things by refusing all. What is his promise now? Apostasy From every high intent : — languid, nay, gone, The prompt devoutness of a generous heart, The strong obedience of a reverent will, That breathes the Church's air and sees her light, He peers and strains with feeble questioning, Or else he jests. He thinks I know it not, — I who have read the history of his lapse, As clear as it is writ in the angel's book. He will defy me, — flings great words at me, — Me who have governed all our house's acts, Since I, a stripling, ruled his stripling father. This maiden is the cause, and if they wed, The Holy War may count a captain lost. For better he were dead than keep his place, And fill it infamously: in God's war Slackness is infamy. Shall I stand by And let the tempter win? defraud Christ's cause, And blot his banner? — all for scruples weak Of pity towards their young and frolicsome blood; Or nice discrimination of the tool By which my hand shall work a sacred rescue? The fence of rules is for the purblind crowd ; They walk by averaged precepts; sovereign men, Seeing by God's light, see the general THE SPANISH GYPSY 117, By seeing all the special, — own no rule But their full vision of the moment's worth. 'T is so God governs, using wicked men, — Nay, scheming fiends, to work his purposes. Evil that good may come ? Measure the good Before you say what 's evil. Perjury? I scorn the perjurer, but I will use him To serve the holy truth. There is no lie Save in his soul, and let his soul be judged. I know the truth, and act upon the truth. O God, thou knowest that my will is pure. Thy servant owns naught for himself, his wealth Is but obedience. And I have sinned In keeping small respects of human love, — Calling it mercy. Mercy? Where evil is True mercy must be terrible. Mercy would save. Save whom? Save serpents, locusts, wolves? Or out of pity let the idiots gorge Within a famished town? Or save the gains Of men who trade in poison lest they starve? Save all things mean and foul that clog the earth Stifling the better ? Save the fools who cling For refuge round their hideous idol's limbs, So leave the idol grinning unconsumed, And save the fools to breed idolaters? Oh mercy worthy of the licking hound That knows no future but its feeding time! Mercy has eyes that pierce the ages, — sees From heights divine of the eternal purpose Far-scattered consequence in its vast sum; Chooses to save, but with illumined vision Sees that to save is greatly to destroy. 'T is so the Holy Inquisition sees : its wrath Is fed from the strong heart of wisest love. For love must needs make hatred. He who loves 118 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT God and his law must hate the foes of God. And I have sinned in being merciful : Being slack in hate, I have been slack in love. (He takes the crucifix and holds it up before him.) Thou shuddering, bleeding, thirsting, dying God, Thou Man of Sorrows, scourged and bruised and torn, Suffering to save, — wilt thou not judge the world? This arm which held the children, this pale hand That gently touched the eyelids of the blind, And opened passive to the cruel nail, Shall one day stretch to leftward of thy throne, Charged with the power that makes the lightning strong, And hurl thy foes to everlasting hell. And thou, Immaculate Mother, Virgin mild, Thou seven-fold pierced, thou pitying, pleading Queen, Shalt see and smile, while the black filthy souls Sink with foul weight to their eternal place, Purging the Holy Light. Yea, I have sinned And called it mercy. But I shrink no more. To-morrow morn this temptress shall be safe Under the Holy Inquisition's key. He thinks to wed her, and defy me then, She being shielded by our house's name. But he shall never wed her. I have said. The time is come. Exurge, Domine, Judica causam tuam. Let thy foes Be driven as the smoke before the wind, And melt like wax upon the furnace lip! A large chamber richly furnished opening on a terrace- gar den _, the trees visible through the win- THE SPANISH GYPSY 119 dow in faint moonlight. Flowers hanging about the window, lit up by the tapers. The casket of jewels open on a table. The gold necklace lying near. FEDALMA,, splendidly dressed and adorned with pearls and rubies, is walking up and down. So soft a night was never made for sleep, But for the waking of the finer sense To every murmuring and gentle sound, To subtlest odours, pulses, visitings That touch our frames with wings too delicate To be discerned amid the blare of day. (She pauses near the window to gather some jasmine: then walks again.) Surely these flowers keep happy watch, — their breath Is their fond memory of the loving light. I often rue the hours I lose in sleep: It is a bliss too brief, only to see This glorious world, to hear the voice of love, To feel the touch, the breath of tenderness, And then to rest as from a spectacle. I need the curtained stillness of the night To live through all my happy hours again With more selection, — cull them quite away From blemished moments. Then in loneliness The face that bent before me in the day Rises in its own light, more vivid seems Painted upon the dark, and ceaseless glows With sweet solemnity of gazing love, Till like the heavenly blue it seems to grow Nearer, more kindred, and more cherishing, Mingling with all my being. Then the words, The tender low-toned words come back again, With repetition welcome as the chime 120 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Of softly hurrying brooks, — " My only love, — My love while life shall last, — my own Fedalmal " Oh, it is mine, — the joy that once has been! Poor eager hope is but a stammerer, Must listen dumbly to great memory, Who makes our bliss the sweeter by her telling. (She pauses a moment musingly.) But that dumb hope is still a sleeping guard Whose quiet rhythmic breath saves me from dread In this fair paradise. For if the earth Broke off with flower-fringed edge, visibly sheer, Leaving no footing for my forward step But empty blackness . . . Nay, there is no fear, — They will renew themselves, day and my joy, And all that past which is securely mine, Will be the hidden root that nourishes Our still unfolding, ever-ripening love! ( While she is uttering the last words, a little bird falls softly on the floor behind her; she hears the light sound of its fall and turns round.) Did, something enter? . . . Yes, this little bird . . . (She lifts it.) Dead and yet warm : 't was seeking sanctuary, And died, perhaps of fright, at the altar foot. Stay, there is something tied beneath the wing! A strip of linen, streaked with blood, — what blood ? The streaks are written words, — are sent to me, — O God, are sent to me ! Dear child,, Fedalma, Be brave, give no alarm, — your Father comes! (She lets the bird fall again.) THE SPANISH GYPSY 121 My Father . . . comes . . . my Father. . . . (She turns in quivering expectation toward the window. There is perfect stillness a few moments until ZARCA appears at the window. He enters quickly and noise- lessly; then stands still at his full height, and at a distance from FEDALMA.) FEDALMA (in a low distinct tone of terror) It is he ! I said his fate had laid its hold on mine. ZARCA (advancing a step or two) You know, then, who I am? FEDALMA The prisoner, — He whom I saw in fetters, — and this necklace — ZARCA Was played with by your fingers when it hung About my neck, full fifteen years ago! FEDALMA (starts, looks at the necklace and handles it, then speaks as if unconsciously) Full fifteen years ago! ZARCA The very day I lost you, when you wore a tiny gown Of scarlet cloth with golden broidery: 'T was clasped in front by coins, — two golden coins. 122 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The one towards the left was split in two Across the King's head, right from brow to nape, A dent i' the middle nicking in the cheek. You see I know the little gown by heart. FEDALMA (growing paler and more tremulous) Yes. It is true, — I have the gown, — the clasps, — The braid, — sore tarnished : — it is long ago ! ZARCA But yesterday tome; for till to-day I saw you always as that little child. And when they took my necklace from me, still Your fingers played about it on my neck, And still those buds of fingers on your feet Caught in its meshes as you seemed to climb Up to my shoulder. You were not stolen all. You had a double life fed from my heart. . . . (FEDALMA., letting fall the necklace, makes an impulsive movement towards him with outstretched hands.) For the Zincalo loves his children well. FEDALMA (shrinking, trembling, and letting fall her hands) How came it that you sought me, — no, — I mean How came it that you knew me, — that you lost me ? ZARCA (standing perfectly still) Poor child ! I see, I see, — your ragged father Is welcome as the piercing wintry wind Within this silken chamber. It is well. I would not have a child who stooped to feign, And aped a sudden love. True hate were better. THE SPANISH GYPSY 128 FED ALMA (raising her eyes towards him, with a flash of admiration, and looking at him fixedly) Father, how was it that we lost each other? ZAECA I lost you as a man may lose a diamond Wherein he has compressed his total wealth, Or the right hand whose cunning makes him great : I lost you by a trivial accident. Marauding Spaniards, sweeping like a storm Over a spot within the Moorish bounds, Near where our camp lay, doubtless snatched you up, When Zind, your nurse, as she confessed, was urged By burning thirst to wander towards the stream, And leave you on the sand some paces off Playing with pebbles, while she dog-like lapped. 'T was so I lost you, — never saw you more Until to-day I saw you dancing! Saw The child of the Zincalo making sport For those who spit upon her people's name. FEDALMA (vehemently) It was not sport. What if the world looked on? — I danced for joy, — for love of all the world. But when you looked at me my joy was stabbed, — Stabbed with your pain. I wondered . . . now I know . . . It was my father's pain. (She pauses a moment with eyes bent down- ward, during which ZARCA examines her face. Then she says quickly,) How were you sure At once I was your child? 124 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ZARCA Oh, I had witness strong As any Cadi needs, before I saw you! I fitted all my memories with the chat Of one named Juan, — one whose rapid talk Showers like the blossoms from a light-twigged shrub, If you but coughed beside it. I learned all The story of your Spanish nurture, — all The promise of your fortune. When at last I fronted you, my little maid full-grown, Belief was turned to vision : then I saw That she whom Spaniards called the bright Fe- dalma, — The little red-f rocked foundling three years old, — Grown to such perf ectness the Christian Duke Had wooed her for his Duchess, — was the child, Sole offspring of my flesh, that Lambra bore One hour before the Christian, hunting us, Hurried her on to death. Therefore I sought you, Therefore I come to claim you — claim my child, Not from the Spaniard, not from him who robbed, But from herself. (FEDALMA has gradually approached close to ZARCA, and with a low sob sinks on her knees before him. He stoops to kiss her brow, and lays his hands on her head.) ZAECA (with solemn tenderness) Then my child owns her father? FEDALMA Father! yes. I will eat dust before I will deny The flesh I spring from. 125 There my daughter spoke. Away then with these rubies ! (He seizes the circlet of rubies and flings it on the ground. FEDALMA, starting from the ground with strong emotion, shrinks backward.) Such a crown Is infamy on a Zincala's brow. It is her people's blood, decking her shame. FEDALMA (after a moment, slowly and distinctly, as if accepting a doom). Then ... I am ... a Zincala? ZARCA Of a blood Unmixed as virgin wine- juice. FEDALMA Of a race More outcast and despised than Moor or Jew? ZARCA Yes : wanderers whom no god took knowledge of To give them laws, to fight for them, or blight Another race to make them ampler room; A people with no home even in memory, No dimmest lore of giant ancestors To make a common hearth for piety. FEDALMA A race that lives on prey as foxes do With stealthy, petty rapine: so despised, 126 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT It is not persecuted, only spurned, Crushed underfoot, warred on by chance like rats, Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea Dragged in the net unsought, and flung far off To perish as they may? ZAECA You paint us well. So abject are the men whose blood we share; Untutored, unbefriended, unendowed; No favourites of heaven or of men. Therefore I cling to them ! Therefore no lure Shall draw me to disown them, or forsake The meagre wandering herd that lows for help And needs me for its guide, to seek my pasture Among the well-fed beeves that graze at will. Because our race have no great memories, I will so live they shall remember me For deeds of such divine beneficence As rivers have, that teach men what is good By blessing them. I have been schooled, — have caught Lore from the Hebrew, deftness from the Moor, — Know the rich heritage, the milder life, Of nations fathered by a mighty Past ; But were our race accursed (as they who make Good luck a god count all unlucky men) I would espouse their curse sooner than take My gifts from brethren naked of all good, And lend them to the rich for usury. ( FEDALMA again advances, and putting forth her right hand grasps ZARCA'S left. He places his other hand on her shoulder. They stand so, looking at each other.) THE SPANISH GYPSY 127 ZARCA And you, my child? are you of other mind, Choosing forgetfulness, hating the truth That says you are akin to needy men? — Wishing your father were some Christian Duke, Who could hang Gypsies when their task was done, While you, his daughter, were not bound to care? FED ALMA (in a troubled., eager voice) No, I should always care — I cared for you — For all, before I dreamed . . . ZARCA Before you dreamed You were a born Zincala, — in the bonds Of the Zincali's faith. FEDALMA (bitterly) Zincali's faith? Men say they have none. ZARCA Oh, it is a faith Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts. Faith to each other: the fidelity Of fellow- wanderers in a desert place Who share the same dire thirst, and therefore share The scanty water : the fidelity Of men whose pulses leap with kindred fire, Who in the flash of eyes, the clasp of hands, The speech that even in lying tells the truth Of heritage inevitable as past deeds, Nay, in the silent bodily presence feel 128 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The mystic stirring of a common life Which makes the many one: fidelity To that deep consecrating oath our sponsor Fate Made through our infant breath when we were born, The fellow-heirs of that small island, Life, Where we must dig and sow and reap with brothers. Fear thou that oath, my daughter, — nay, not fear, But love it; for the sanctity of oaths Lies not in lightning that avenges them, But in the injury wrought by broken bonds And in the garnered good of human trust. And you have sworn, — even with your infant breath You too were pledged . . . FEDALMA (lets go ZARCA'S hand and sinks back- ward on her knees,, with bent head, as if before some impending crushing weight) What have I sworn? ZARCA To live the life of the Zincala's child: The child of him who, being chief, will be The saviour of his tribe, or if he fail Will choose to fail rather than basely win The prize of renegades. Nay — will not choose — Is there a choice for strong souls to be weak? For men erect to crawl like hissing snakes? I choose not, — I am Zarca. Let him choose Who halts and wavers, having appetite To feed on garbage. You, my child, — are you Halting and wavering? THE SPANISH GYPSY 129 FED ALMA (raising her head) Say what is my task? ZAECA To be the angel of a homeless tribe : To help me bless a race taught by no prophet, And make their name, now but a badge of scorn, A glorious banner floating in their midst, Stirring the air they breathe with impulses Of generous pride, exalting fellowship Until it soars to magnanimity. I '11 guide my brethren forth to their new land, Where they shall plant and sow and reap their own, Serving each other's needs, and so be spurred To skill in all the arts that succour life ; Where we may kindle our first altar-fire From settled hearths, and call our Holy Place The hearth that binds us in one family. That land awaits them : they await their chief, — Me who am prisoned. All depends on you. FEDALMA (rising to her full height, and looking solemnly at ZARCA) Father, your child is ready! She will not Forsake her kindred: she will brave all scorn Sooner than scorn herself. Let Spaniards all, Christians, Jews, Moors, shoot out the lip and say, " Lo, the first hero in a tribe of thieves." Is it not written so of them? They, too, Were slaves, lost, wandering, sunk beneath a curse, Till Moses, Christ, and Mahomet were born, Till beings lonely in their greatness lived, And lived to save their people. Father, listen. To-morrow the Duke weds me secretly : VOL. XVII — 9 130 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT But straight he will present me as his wife To all his household, cavaliers and dames And noble pages. Then I will declare Before them all: "I am his daughter, his, The Gypsy's, owner of this golden badge." Then I shall win your freedom ; then the Duke — Why, he will be your son ! — will send you forth With aid and honours. Then, before all eyes I '11 clasp this badge on you, and lift my brow For you to kiss it, saying by that sign, " I glory in my father." This, to-morrow. ZARCA A woman's dream, — who thinks by smiling well To ripen figs in frost. What ! marry first, And then proclaim your birth? Enslave yourself To use your freedom? Share another's name, Then treat it as you will? How will that tune Ring in your bridegroom's ears, — that sudden song Of triumph in your Gypsy father? FEDALMA (discouraged) Nay, I meant not so. We marry hastily — Yet there is time — there will be : — in less space Than he can take to look at me, I '11 speak And tell him all. Oh, I am not afraid I His love for me is stronger than all hate ; Nay, stronger than my love, which cannot sway Demons that haunt me, — tempt me to rebel. Were he Fedalma and I Silva, he Could love confession, prayers, and tonsured monks If my soul craved them. He will never hate The race that bore him what he loves the most. THE SPANISH GYPSY 131 I shall but do more strongly what I will, Having his will to help me. And to-morrow, Father, as surely as this heart shall beat, You, every chained Zincalo, shall be free. ZARCA (coming nearer to her, and laying his hand on her shoulder) Too late, too poor a service that, my child ! Not so the woman who would save her tribe Must help its heroes, — not by wordy breath, By easy prayers strong in a lover's ear, By showering wreaths and sweets and wafted kisses, And then, when all the smiling work is done, Turning to rest upon her down again, And whisper languid pity for her race Upon the bosom of her alien spouse. Not to such petty mercies as can fall 'Twixt stitch and stitch of silken broidery work. Such miracles of mitred saints who pause Beneath their gilded canopy to heal A man sun-stricken : not to such trim merit As soils its dainty shoes for charity And simpers meekly at the pious stain, But never trod with naked bleeding feet Where no man praised it, and where no Church blessed : Not to such almsdeeds fit for holidays Were you, my daughter, consecrated, — bound By laws that, breaking, you will dip your bread In murdered brother's blood and call it sweet, — When you were born in the Zincalo's tent, And lifted up in sight of all your tribe, Who greeted you with shouts of loyal joy, Sole offspring of the chief in whom they trust As in the oft-tried never-failing flint They strike their fire from. Other work is yours. 132 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FED ALMA What work? — what is it that you ask of me? ZARCA A work as pregnant as the act of men Who set their ships aflame and spring to land, A fatal deed . . . FEDALMA Stay! never utter it! If it can part my lot from his whose love Has chosen me. Talk not of oaths, of birth, Of men as numerous as the dim white stars, — As cold and distant, too, for my heart's pulse. No ills on earth, though you should count them up With grains to make a mountain, can outweigh For me, his ill who is my supreme love. All sorrows else are but imagined flames, Making me shudder at an unfelt smart, But his imagined sorrow is a fire That scorches me. ZARCA I know, I know it well, — The first young passionate wail of spirits called To some great destiny. In vain, my daughter! Lay the young eagle in what nest you will, The cry and swoop of eagles overhead Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame, And make it spread its wings and poise itself For the eagle's flight. Hear what you have to do. (FEDALMA breaks from him and stands half averted, as if she dreaded the effect of his looks and words.) THE SPANISH GYPSY 133 My comrades even now file off their chains In a low turret by the battlements, Where we were locked with slight and sleepy guard, — We who had files hid in our shaggy hair, And possible ropes that waited but our will In half our garments. Oh, the Moorish blood Runs thick and warm to us, though thinned by chrism. I found a friend among our jailers, — one Who loves the Gypsy as the Moor's ally. I know the secrets of this fortress. Listen. Hard by yon terrace is a narrow stair, Cut in the living rock, and at one point In its slow straggling course it branches off Towards a low wooden door, that art has bossed To such unevenness, it seems one piece With the rough-hewn rock. Opened, it leads. Through a broad passage burrowed underground A good half-mile out to the open plain: Made for escape, in dire extremity From siege or burning, of the house's wealth In women or in gold. To find that door Needs one who knows the number of the steps Just to the turning-point ; to open it, Needs one who knows the secret of the bolt. You have that secret: you will ope that door, And fly with us. FEDALMA (receding a little, and gathering herself up in an attitude of resolve opposite to ZAECA) No, I will never fly! Never forsake that chief half of my soul Where lies my love. I swear to set you free. Ask for no more; it is not possible. 134 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Father, my soul is not too base to ring At touch of your great thoughts ; nay, in my blood There streams the sense unspeakable of kind, As leopard feels at ease with leopard. But, — Look at these hands! You say when they were little They played about the gold upon your neck. I do believe it, for their tiny pulse Made record of it in the inmost coil Of growing memory. But see them now! Oh they have made fresh record ; twined themselves With other throbbing hands whose pulses feed Not memories only but a blended life, — Life that will bleed to death if it be severed. Have pity on me, father! Wait the morning; Say you will wait the morning. I will win Your freedom openly: you shall go forth With aid and honours. Silva will deny Naught to my asking . . . ZARCA (with contemptuous decision), Till you ask him aught Wherein he is powerless. Soldiers even now Murmur against him that he risks the town, And forfeits all the prizes of a foray To get his bridal pleasure with a bride Too low for him. They '11 murmur more and louder If captives of our pith and sinew, fit For all the work the Spaniard hates, are freed, — Now, too, when Spanish hands are scanty. What, Turn Gypsies loose instead of hanging them! 'T is flat against the edict. Nay, perchance Murmurs aloud may turn to silent threats Of some well-sharpened dagger; for your Duke THE SPANISH GYPSY 135 Has to his heir a pious cousin, who deems The Cross were better served if he were Duke. Such good you '11 work your lover by your prayers. FED ALMA Then, I will free you now! You shall be safe, Nor he be blamed, save for his love to me. I will declare what I have done: the deed May put our marriage off. . . . ZARCA Ay, till the time When you shall be a queen in Africa, And he be prince enough to sue for you. You cannot free us and come back to him. FEDALMA And why? ZARCA I would compel you to go forth. FEDALMA You tell me that? ZARCA Yes, for I 'd have you choose ; Though, being of the blood you are, — my blood, — You have no right to choose. FEDALMA I only owe A daughter's debt; I was not born a slave. 136 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ZARCA No, not a slave j but you were born to reign. 'T is a compulsion of a higher sort, Whose fetters are the net invisible That holds all life together. Royal deeds May make long destinies for multitudes, And you are called to do them. You belong Not to the petty round of circumstance That 'makes a woman's lot, but to your tribe, Who trust in me and in my blood with trust That men call blind; but it is only blind As unyeaned reason is, that growing stirs Within the womb of superstition. FEDALMA No! I belong to him who loves me — whom I love — Who chose me — whom I chose — to whom I pledged A woman's truth. And that is nature too, Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth. ZARCA Well, then, unmake yourself from a Zincala, — Unmake yourself from being child of mine! Take holy water, cross your dark skin white; Round your proud eyes to foolish kitten looks; Walk mincingly, and smirk, and twitch your robe : Unmake yourself, — doff all the eagle plumes And be a parrot, chained to a ring that slips Upon a Spaniard's thumb, at will of his That you should prattle o'er his words again! Get a small heart that flutters at the smiles Of that plump penitent and greedy saint Who breaks all treaties in the name of God, THE SPANISH GYPSY 137 Saves souls by confiscation, sends to heaven The altar-fumes of burning heretics, And chaffers with the Levite for the gold; Holds Gypsies beasts unfit for sacrifice, So sweeps them out like worms alive or dead. Go, trail your gold and velvet in her presence ! — Conscious Zincala, smile at your rare luck, While half your brethren . . . FEDALMA I am not so vile! It is not to such mockeries that I cling, Not to the flaring tow of gala-lights: It is to him — my love — the face of day. ZARCA What, will you part him from the air he breathes, Never inhale with him although you kiss him? Will you adopt a soul without its thoughts, Or grasp a life apart from flesh and blood? Till then you cannot wed a Spanish Duke And not wed shame at mention of your race, And not wed hardness to their miseries, — Nay, not wed murder. Would you save my life Yet stab my purpose? maim my every limb, Put out my eyes, and turn me loose to feed? Is that salvation? rather drink my blood. That child of mine who weds my enemy, — Adores a God who took no heed of Gypsies, — Forsakes her people, leaves their poverty To join the luckier crowd that mocks their woes, — That child of mine is doubly murderess, Murdering her father's hope, her people's trust. Such draughts are mingled in your cup of love. 138 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And when you have become a thing so poor, Your life is all a fashion without law Save frail conjecture of a changing wish, Your worshipped sun, your smiling face of day, Will turn to cloudiness, and you will shiver In your thin finery of vain desire. Men call his passion madness; and he, too, May learn to think it madness: 't is a thought Of ducal sanity. FEDALMA No, he is true ! And if I part from him I part from joy. Oh, it was morning with us, — I seemed young. But now I know I am an aged sorrow, — My people's sorrow. Father, since I am yours, — Since I must walk an unslain sacrifice, Carrying the knife within me, quivering, — Put cords upon me, drag me to the doom My birth has laid upon me. See, I kneel: I cannot will to go. ZARCA Will then to stay! Say you will take your better, painted such By blind desire, and choose the hideous worse For thousands who were happier but for you. My thirty followers are assembled now Without this terrace: I your father wait That you may lead us forth to liberty, — Restore me to my tribe, — five hundred men Whom I alone can save, alone can rule, And plant them as a mighty nation's seed. Why, vagabonds who clustered round one man, THE SPANISH GYPSY 139 Their voice of God, their prophet, and their king, Twice grew to empire on the teeming shores Of Africa, and sent new royalties To feed afresh the Arab sway in Spain. My vagabonds are a seed more generous, Quick as the serpent, loving as the hound, And beautiful as disinherited gods. They have a promised land beyond the sea: There I may lead them, raise my standard, call All wandering Zincali to that home, And make a nation, — bring light, order, law, Instead of chaos. You, my only heir, Are called to reign for me when I am gone. Now choose your deed: to save or to destroy. You, woman and Zincala, fortunate Above your fellows, — you who hold a curse Or blessing in the hollow of your hand, — Say you will loose that hand from fellowship, Let go the rescuing rope, hurl all the tribes, Children and countless beings yet to come, Down from the upward path of light and joy, Back to the dark and marshy wilderness Where life is naught but blind tenacity Of that which is. Say you will curse your race! FEDALMA (rising and stretching out her arms in deprecation) No, no, — I will not say it, — I will gol Father, I choose! I will not take a heaven Haunted by shrieks of far-off misery. This deed and I have ripened with the hours: It is a part of me, — awakened thought That, rising like a giant, masters me, And grows into a doom. O mother life, 140 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT That seemed to nourish me so tenderly, Even in the womb you vowed me to the fire, Hung on my soul the burden of men's hopes, And pledged me to redeem ! — I '11 pay the debt. You gave me strength that I should pour it all Into this anguish. I can never shrink Back into bliss, — my heart has grown too big With things that might be. Father, I will go. I will strip off these gems. Some happier bride Shall wear them, since Fedalma would be dowered With naught but curses, dowered with misery Of men, — of women, who have hearts to bleed As hers is bleeding. (She sinks on a seat, and begins to take off her jewels.) Now, good gems, we part. Speak of me always tenderly to Silva. (She pauses, turning to ZARCA.) O father, will the women of our tribe Suffer as I do, in the years to come When you have made them great in Africa? Redeemed from ignorant ills only to feel A conscious woe? Then, — is it worth the pains? Were it not better when we reach that shore To raise a funeral-pile and perish all? So closing up a myriad avenues To misery yet un wrought? My soul is faint, — Will these sharp pangs buy any certain good? ZARCA Nay, never falter: no great deed is done By falterers who ask for certainty. No good is certain, but the steadfast mind, The undivided will to seek the good: THE SPANISH GYPSY 141 'T is that compels the elements, and wrings A human music from the indifferent air. The greatest gift the hero leaves his race Is to have been a hero. Say we fail ! — We feed the high tradition of the world, And leave our spirit in Zincalo breasts. FEDALMA (unclasping her jewelled belt, and throwing it down) Yes, say that we shall fail! I will not count On aught but being faithful. I will take This yearning self of mine and strangle it. I will not be half-hearted: never yet Fedalma did aught with a wavering soul. Die, my young joy, — die, all my hungry hopes, — The milk you cry for from the breast of life Is thick with curses. Oh, all fatness here Snatches its meat from leanness, — feeds on graves. I will seek nothing but to shun what 's base. The saints were cowards who stood by to see Christ crucified : they should have flung themselves Upon the Roman spears, and died in vain, — The grandest death, to die in vain, — for love Greater than sways the forces of the world. That death shall be my bridegroom. I will wed The curse of the Zincali. Father, come! ZAECA No curse has fallen on us till we cease To help each other. You, if you are false To that first fellowship, lay on the curse. But write now to the Spaniard: briefly say That I, your father, came; that you obeyed The fate which made you a Zincala, as his fate 142 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Made him a Spanish duke and Christian knight. He must not think . . . FED ALMA Yes, I will write, but he, Oh, he would know it, — he would never think The chain that dragged me from him could be aught But scorching iron entering in my soul. (She writes.) Silva, sole love, — Tie came, — my father came. I am the daughter of the Gypsy chief Who means to be the Saviour of our tribe. He calls on me to live for his great end. To live? nay, die for it. Fedalma dies In leaving Silva: all that lives henceforth Is the Zincala. (She rises.) Father, now I go To wed my people's lot. ZAECA To wed a crown. We will make royal the Zincali's lot, — Give it a country, homes, and monuments Held sacred through the lofty memories That we shall leave behind us. Come, my Queen! FEDALMA Stay, my betrothal ring ! — one kiss, — farewell ! O love, you were my crown. No other crown Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's brow. (Exeunt.) THE SPANISH GYPSY 143 BOOK II SILVA was marching homeward while the moon Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pray. The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large, Bending in slow procession; in the east Emergent from the dark waves of the hills, Seeming a little sister of the moon, Glowed Venus all unquenched. Silva, in haste, Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop To quick and quicker march: he had delight In forward stretching shadows, in the gleams That travelled on the armour of the van, And in the many-hoofed sound: in all that told Of hurrying movement to o'ertake his thought Already in Bedmar, close to Fedalma, Leading her forth a wedded bride, fast vowed, Defying Father Isidor. His glance Took in with much content the priest who rode Firm in his saddle, stalwart and broad-backed, Crisp-curled, and comfortably secular, Right in the front of him. But by degrees Stealthily faint, disturbing with slow loss That showed not yet full promise of a gain, The light was changing and the watch intense Of moon and stars seemed weary, shivering: The sharp white brightness passed from off the rocks Carrying the shadows : beauteous Night lay dead Under the pall of twilight, and the love-star Sickened and shrank. The troop was winding now 144 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Upward to where a pass between the peaks Seemed like an opened gate, — to Silva seemed An outer-gate of heaven, for through that pass They entered his own valley, near Bedmar. Sudden within the pass a horseman rose One instant dark upon the banner pale Of rock-cut sky, the next in motion swift With hat and plume high shaken, — ominous. Silva had dreamed his future, and the dream Held not this messenger. A minute more, — It was his friend Don Alvar whom he saw Reining his horse up, face to face with him, Sad as the twilight, all his clothes ill-girt, — As if he had been roused to see one die, And brought the news to him whom death had robbed. Silva believed he saw the worst, — the town Stormed by the infidel, — or, could it be Fedalma dragged? — no, there was not yet time. But with a marble face, he only said, "What evil, Alvar?" ' What this paper speaks." It was Fedalma's letter folded close And mute as yet for Silva. But his friend Keeping it still sharp-pinched against his breast, " It will smite hard, my lord : a private grief. I would not have you pause to read it here. Let us ride on, — we use the moments best, Reaching the town with speed. The smaller ill Is that our Gypsy prisoners have escaped." " No more. Give me the paper, — nay, I know, — 'T will make no difference. Bid them march on faster." Silva pushed forward, — held the paper crushed Close in his right. " They have imprisoned her," He said to Alvar in low, hard-cut tones, THE SPANISH GYPSY 145 Like a dream-speech of slumbering revenge. " No, — when they came to fetch her, she was gone." Swift as the right touch on a spring, that word Made Silva read the letter. She was gone! But not into locked darkness, — only gone Into free air, — where he might find her yet. The bitter loss had triumph in it, — what ! They would have seized her with their holy claws? The Prior's sweet morsel of despotic hate Was snatched from off his lips. This misery Had yet a taste of joy. But she was gone! The sun had risen, and in the castle walls The light grew strong and stronger. Silva walked Through the long corridor where dimness yet Cherished a lingering, flickering, dying hope: Fedalma still was there, — he could not see The vacant place that once her presence filled. Can we believe that the dear dead are gone? Love in sad weeds forgets the funeral day, Opens the chamber door and almost smiles, — Then sees the sunbeams pierce athwart the bed Where the pale face is not. So Silva's joy, Like the sweet habit of caressing hands That seek the memory of another hand, Still lived on fitfully in spite of words, And, numbing thought with vague illusion, dulled The slow and steadfast beat of certainty. But in the rooms inexorable light Streamed through the open window where she fled, Streamed on the belt and coronet thrown down, — Mute witnesses, — sought out the typic ring That sparkled on the crimson, solitary, Wounding him like a word. O hateful light! VOL. xvn — 10 U6 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT It filled the chambers with her absence, glared On all the motionless things her hand had touched, Motionless all, — save where old Inez lay Sunk on the floor holding her rosary, Making its shadow tremble with her fear. And Silva passed her by because she grieved: It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads, He longed to crush, because they made no sign But of insistence that she was not there, She who had filled his sight and hidden them. He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs, Saw the rained petals of the cistus flowers Crushed by large feet; but on one shady spot Far down the steps, where dampness made a home, He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small, So dear to him, he searched for sister-prints, Searched in the rock-hewn passage with a lamp For other trace of her, and found a glove; But not Fedalma's. It was Juan's glove, Tasselled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, A gift of dames. Then, Juan, too, was gone? Pull-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the town, Had spread the tale already, — it was he That helped the Gypsies' flight. He talked and sang Of nothing but the Gypsies and Fedalma. He drew the threads together, wove the plan. Had lingered out by moonlight and been seen Strolling, as was his wont, within the walls, Humming his ditties. So Don Alvar told, Conveying outside rumour. But the Duke Keeping his haughtiness as a visor closed Would show no agitated front in quest Of small disclosures. What her writing bore THE SPANISH GYPSY 147 Had been enough. He knew that she was gone, Knew why. " The Duke," some said, " will send a force, Retake the prisoners, and bring back his bride." But others, winking, " Nay, her wedding dress Would be the san-benito. 'T is a fight Between the Duke and Prior. Wise bets will choose The churchman: he 's the iron, and the Duke " — " Is a fine piece of pottery," said mine host, Softening the epigram with a bland regret. There was the thread that in the new-made knot Of obstinate circumstance seemed hardest drawn, Vexed most the sense of Silva, in these hours Of fresh and angry pain, — there, in that fight Against a foe whose sword was magical, His shield invisible terrors, — against a foe Who stood as if upon the smoking mount Ordaining plagues. All else, Fedalma's flight, The father's claim, her Gypsy birth disclosed, Were momentary crosses, hindrances A Spanish noble might despise. This Chief Might still be treated with, would not refuse A proffered ransom, which would better serve Gypsy prosperity, give him more power Over his tribe, than any fatherhood: Nay, all the father in him must plead loud For marriage of his daughter where she loved, — Her love being placed so high and lustrously. The keen Zincalo had foreseen a price That would be paid him for his daughter's dower, — Might soon give signs. Oh, all his purpose lay Face upward. Silva here felt strong, and smiled. What could a Spanish noble not command? 148 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT He only helped the Queen, because he chose, — Could war on Spaniards, and could spare the Moor, — Buy justice, or defeat it, — if he would : Was loyal, not from weakness but from strength Of high resolve to use his birthright well. For nobles too are gods, like Emperors, Accept perforce their own divinity And wonder at the virtue of their touch, Till obstinate resistance shakes their creed, Shattering that self whose wholeness is not rounded Save in the plastic souls of other men. Don Silva had been suckled in that creed (A speculative noble else, knowing Italian), Held it absurd as foolish argument If any failed in deference, was too proud Not to be courteous to so poor a knave As one who knew not necessary truths Of birth and precedence; but cross his will, The miracle-working will, his rage leaped out As by a right divine to rage more fatal Than a mere mortal man's. And now that will Had met a stronger adversary, — strong As awful ghosts are whom we cannot touch, While they grasp us, subtly as poisoned air, In deep-laid fibres of inherited fear That lie below all courage. Silva said, " She is not lost to me, might still be mine But for the Inquisition, — the dire hand That waits to clutch her with a hideous grasp, Not passionate, human, living, but a grasp As in the death-throe when the human soul Departs and leaves force unrelenting, locked, Not to be loosened save by slow decay That frets the universe. Father Isidor THE SPANISH GYPSY 149 Has willed it so: his phial dropped the oil To catch the air-borne motes of idle slander; He fed the fascinated gaze that clung Round all her movements, frank as growths With the new hateful interest of suspicion. What barrier is this Gypsy? a mere gate I '11 find the key for. The one barrier, The tightening cord that winds about my limbs, Is this kind uncle, this imperious saint, He who will save me, guard me from myself. And he can work his will: I have no help Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge Save that I will do what he schemes to hinder. Ay, secrecy, and disobedience, — these No tyranny can master. Disobey! You may divide the universe with God, Keeping your will unbent, and hold a world Where he is not supreme. The Prior shall know it ! His will shall breed resistance: he shall do The thing he would not, further what he hates By hardening my resolve." But 'neath this inward speech, — Predominant, hectoring, the more passionate voice Of many-blended consciousness, — there breathed Murmurs of doubt, the weakness of a self That is not one; denies and yet believes; Protests with passion, " This is natural," — Yet owns the other still were truer, better, Could nature follow it. A self disturbed By budding growths of reason premature That breed disease. Spite of defiant rage Silva half shrank before the steadfast man Whose life was one compacted whole, a state Where the rule changed not, and the law was strong. Then straightway he resented that forced tribute, 150 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Rousing rebellion with intenser will. But soon this inward strife the slow-paced hours Slackened ; and the soul sank with hunger-pangs, Hunger of love. Debate was swept right down By certainty of loss intolerable. A little loss! only a dark-tressed maid Who had no heritage save her beauteous being! But in the candour of her virgin eyes Saying, I love; and in the mystic charm Of her dear presence, Silva found a heaven Where faith and hope were drowned as stars in day. Fedalma there, each momentary Now Seemed a whole blest existence, a full cup That, flowing over, asked no pouring hand From past to future. All the world was hers. Splendour was but the herald trumpet note Of her imperial coming: penury Vanished before her as before a gem The pledge of treasuries. Fedalma there, He thought all loveliness was lovelier, She crowning it: all goodness credible, Because of the great trust her goodness bred. For the strong current of that passionate love Which urged his life tow'rds hers, like urgent floods That hurry through the various-mingled earth, Carried within its stream all qualities Of what it penetrated, and made love Only another name, as Silva was, For the whole man that breathed within his frame. And she was gone. Well, goddesses will go; But for a noble there were mortals left Shaped just like goddesses, — O hateful sweet! O impudent pleasure that should dare to front With vulgar visage memories divine! THE SPANISH GYPSY 151 The noble's birthright of miraculous will Turning I would to must be, spurning all Offered as substitute for what it chose, Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable The passionate selection of that love Which came not first but as all-conquering last. Great Love has many attributes, and shrines For varied worshippers, but his force divine Shows most its many-named fulness in the man Whose nature multitudinously mixed, Each ardent impulse grappling with a thought Resists all easy gladness, all content Save mystic rapture, where the questioning soul Flooded with consciousness of good that is Finds life one bounteous answer. So it was In Silva's nature, Love had mastery there, Not as a holiday ruler, but as one Who quells a tumult in a day of dread, A welcomed despot. Oh, all comforters, ,A11 soothing things that bring mild ecstasy, Came with her coming, in her presence lived. Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns When white light rains upon the quiet sea And corn-fields flush with ripeness ; odours soft, — Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home And find it deep within 'mid stirrings vague Of far-off moments when our life was fresh; All sweetly-tempered music, gentle change Of sound, form, colour, as on wide lagoons At sunset when from black far-floating prows Comes a clear wafted song; all exquisite joy Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream Made placid in the fulness of a lake, — All came with her sweet presence, for she brought 152 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The love supreme which gathers to its realm All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand Waked with a touch the intricate harmonies In her own manifold work. Fedalma there, Fastidiousness became the prelude fine For full-contentment, and young melancholy, Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain Of waiting for that perfect happiness — The happiness was gone! He sat alone, Hating companionship that was not hers; Felt bruised with hopeless longing; drank, as wine, Illusions of what had been, would have been; Weary with anger and a strained resolve, Sought passive happiness in a waking dream. It has been so with rulers, emperors, Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time, Sharing his hoary and beneficent lif e, — Men who sat throned among the multitudes, — They have sore sickened at the loss of one. Silva sat lonely in her chamber, leaned Where she had leaned, to feel the evening breath Shed from the orange-trees; when suddenly His grief was echoed in a sad young voice Far and yet near, brought by aerial wings. The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely. The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went, And I am lonely. THE SPANISH GYPSY 153 The world is great: the wind comes rushing by, I wonder where it comes from; sea-birds cry And hurt my heart: my little sister went, . And I am lonely. The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! I 'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went, And I am lonely. 'T was Pablo, like the wounded spirit of song Pouring melodious pain to cheat the hour For idle soldiers in the castle court. Dreamily Silva heard and hardly felt The song was outward, rather felt it part Of his own aching, like the lingering day, Or slow and mournful cadence of the bell. But when the voice had ceased, he longed for it, And fretted at the pause, as memory frets When words that made its body fall away And leave it yearning dumbly. Silva then Bethought him whence the voice came, framed perforce Some outward image of a life not his That made a sorrowful centre to the world, — A boy lame, melancholy-eyed, who bore A viol, — yes, that very child he saw This morning eating roots by the gateway, — saw As one fresh-ruined sees and spells a name And knows not what he does, yet finds it writ Full in the inner record. Hark, again! The voice and viol. Silva called his thought To guide his ear and track the travelling sound. 154 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT O bird that used to press Thy head against my cheek With touch that seemed to speak And ask a tender " yes" — Ay de mi, my bird! O tender downy breast And warmly beating heart. That beating seemed a part Of me who gave it rest, — Ay de mi, my bird! The western court! The singer might be seen From the upper gallery : quick the Duke was there Looking upon the court as on a stage. Men eased of armour, stretched upon the ground, Gambling by snatches; shepherds from the hills Who brought their bleating friends for slaughter ; grooms Shouldering loose harness ; leather-aproned smiths, Traders with wares, green-suited serving-men, Made a round audience; and in their midst Stood little Pablo, pouring forth his song, Just as the Duke had pictured. But the song Was strangely companied by Roldan's play With the swift-gleaming balls, and now was crushed By peals of laughter at grave Annibal, Who carrying stick and purse o'erturned the pence Making mistake by rule. Silva had thought To melt hard bitter grief by fellowship With the world-sorrow trembling in his ear In Pablo's voice; had meant to give command For the boy's presence; but this company, This mountebank and monkey, must be — stay! Not be excepted — must be ordered too , . THE SPANISH GYPSY 155 Into his private presence; they had brought Suggestion of a ready shapen tool To cut a path between his helpless wish And what it imaged. A ready shapen tool! A spy, an envoy whom he might despatch In unsuspected secrecy, to find The Gypsies' refuge so that none beside Might learn it. And this juggler could be bribed, Would have no fear of Moors, — for who would kill Dancers and monkeys? — could pretend a journey Back to his home, leaving his boy the while To please the Duke with song. Without such chance, — An envoy cheap and, secret as a mole Who could go scathless, come back for his pay And vanish straight, tied by no neighbourhood, — Without such chance as this poor juggler brought, Finding Fedalma was betraying her. Short interval betwixt the thought and deed. Roldan was called to private audience With Annibal and Pablo. All the world (By which I mean the score or two who heard) Shrugged high their shoulders, and supposed the Duke Would fain beguile the evening and replace His lacking happiness, as was the right Of nobles, who could pay for any cure, And wore naught broken, save a broken limb. In truth, at first, the Duke bade Pablo sing, But, while he sang, called Roldan wide apart, And told him of a mission secret, brief, - A quest which well performed might earn much gold, But, if betrayed, another sort of wages. 156 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Rold,an was ready; " wished above all for gold And never wished to speak; had worked enough At wagging his old tongue and chiming jokes; Thought it was others' turn to play the fool. Give him but pence enough, no rabbit, sirs, Would eat and stare and be more dumb than he. Give him his orders." They were given straight; Gold for the journey, and to buy a mule Outside the gates through which he was to pass Afoot and carelessly. The boy would stay Within the castle, at the Duke's command, And must have naught but ignorance to betray For threats or coaxing. Once the quest performed, The news delivered with some pledge of truth Safe to the Duke, the juggler should go forth, A fortune in his girdle, take his boy And settle firm as any planted tree In fair Valencia, never more to roam. " Good ! good ! most worthy of a great hidalgo ! And Roldan was the man ! But Annibal, — A monkey like no other, though morose In private character, yet full of tricks, — 'T were hard to carry him, yet harder still To leave the boy and him in company And free to slip away. The boy was wild And shy as mountain kid; once hid himself And tried to run away; and Annibal, Who always took the lad's side (he was small, And they were nearer of a size, and, sirs, Your monkey has a spite against us men For being bigger) , — Annibal went too. Would hardly know himself, were he to lose Both boy and monkey, — and 't was property, The trouble he had put in Annibal. He did n't choose another man should beat THE SPANISH GYPSY 157 His boy and monkey. If they ran away Some man would snap them up, and square himself And say they were his goods, — he 'd taught them, — no ! He Roldan had no mind another man Should fatten by his monkey, and the boy Should not be kicked by any pair of sticks Calling himself a juggler." . . . But the Duke, Tired of that hammering, signed that it should cease ; Bade Roldan quit all fears, — the boy and ape Should be safe lodged in Abderahman's tower, In keeping of the great physician there, The Duke's most special confidant and friend, One skilled in taming brutes, and always kind. The Duke himself this eve would see them lodged. Roldan must go, — spend no more words, — but A room high up in Abderahman's tower, A window open to the still warm eve, And the bright disk of royal Jupiter. Lamps burning low make little atmospheres Of light amid the dimness; here and there Show books and phials, stones and instruments. In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man, In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls, And loose black gown showing a neck and breast Protected by a dim-green amulet ; Pale-faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe Ethereal passion in a world of thought; Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate; Beard scant and grizzled; mouth shut firm, with curves 158 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT So subtly turned to meanings exquisite, You seem to read them as you read a word Full-vowelled, long-descended, pregnant, — rich With legacies from long, laborious lives. Close by him, like a genius of sleep, Purrs the gray cat, bridling, with snowy breast. A loud knock. " Forward! " in clear vocal ring. Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal. Exit the cat, retreating toward the dark. DON SILVA You slept, Sephardo. I am come too soon. SEPHARDO Nay, my lord, it was I who slept too long. I go to court among the stars to-night, So bathed my soul beforehand in deep sleep. But who are these? DON SILVA Small guests, for whom I ask Your hospitality. Their owner comes Some short time hence to claim them. I am pledged To keep them safely; so I bring them you, Trusting your friendship for small animals. SEPHARDO Yea, am not I too a small animal? DON SILVA I shall be much beholden to your love If you will be their guardian. I can trust THE SPANISH GYPSY 159 No other man so well as you. The boy Will please you with his singing, touches too The viol wondrously. SEPHARDO They are welcome both. Their names are? DON SILVA Pablo, this — this Annibal, And yet, I hope, no warrior. SEPHAEDO We '11 make peace. Come, Pablo, let us loosen our friend's chain. Deign you, my lord, to sit. Here, Pablo, thou — Close to my chair. Now Annibal shall choose. [The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dress, - A tunic white, turban and scymitar, Wears these stage garments, nay, his very flesh With silent protest; keeps a neutral air As aiming at a metaphysic state 'Twixt " is " and " is not; " lets his chain be loosed By sage Sephardo's hands, sits still at first, Then trembles out of his neutrality, Looks up and leaps into Sephardo's lap, And chatters forth his agitated soul, Turning to peep at Pablo on the floor.] SEPHARDO See, he declares we are at amity I DON SILVA No brother sage had read your nature faster. 160 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT SEPHARDO Why, so he is a brother sage. Man thinks Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not his: Can we divine their world? — the hidden life That mirrors us as hideous shapeless power, Cruel supremacy of sharp-edged death, Or fate that leaves a bleeding mother robbed? Oh, they have long tradition and swift speech, Can tell with touches and sharp darting cries Whole histories of timid races taught To breathe in terror by red-handed man. DON SILVA Ah, you denounce my sport with hawk and hound. I would not have the angel Gabriel As hard as you in noting down my sins. SEPHARDO Nay, they are virtues for you warriors, — Hawking and hunting! You are merciful When you leave killing men to kill the brutes. But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose To know the mind that stirs between the wings Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods With myriad murmurs of responsive sense And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know The thoughts of warriors. DON SILVA Yet they are warriors too, — Your animals. Your judgment limps, Sephardo: Death is the king of this world; 'tis his park Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain THE SPANISH GYPSY 161 Are music for his banquet ; and the masque, — The last grand masque for his diversion, is The Holy Inquisition. SEPHARDO Ay, anon I may chime in with you. But not the less My judgment has firm feet. Though death were king, And cruelty his right-hand minister, Pity insurgent in some human breasts Makes spiritual empire, reigns supreme As persecuted faith in faithful hearts. Your small physician, weighing ninety pounds, A petty morsel for a healthy shark, Will worship mercy throned within his soul Though all the luminous angels of the stars Burst into cruel chorus on his ear, Singing, "We know no mercy." He would cry " I know it " still, and soothe the frightened bird And feed the child a-hungered, walk abreast Of persecuted men, and keep most hate For rational torturers. There I stand firm. But you are bitter, and my speech rolls on Out of your note. DON SILVA No, no, I follow you. I too have that within which I will worship In spite of — yes, Sephardo, I am bitter. I need your counsel, foresight, all your aid. Lay these small guests to bed, then we will talk. VOL. XVII — 11 162 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT SEPHARDO See, they are sleeping now. The boy has made My leg his pillow. For my brother sage, He '11 never heed us ; he knit long ago A sound ape-system, wherein men are brutes Emitting doubtful noises. Pray, my lord, Unlade what burdens you: my ear and hand Are servants of a heart much bound to you. DON SILVA Yes, yours is love that roots in gifts bestowed By you on others, and will thrive the more The more it gives. I have a double want: First a confessor, — not a Catholic; A heart without a livery, — naked manhood. SEPHARDO My lord, I will be frank, there 's no such thing As naked manhood. If the stars look down On any mortal of our shape, whose strength Is to judge all things without preference, He is a monster, not a faithful man. While my heart beats, it shall wear livery, — My people's livery, whose yellow badge Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile: That suits the rich marranos; but to me My father is first father and then man. So much for frankness' sake. But let that pass. 'T is true at least, I am no Catholic, But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew, Willing to serve Don Silva. THE SPANISH GYPSY 163 DON SILVA Oft you sing Another strain, and melt distinctions down, As no more real than the wall of dark Seen by small fishes' eyes, that pierce a span In the wide ocean. Now you league yourself To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds Made, say you, — how? — by God or Demiurge, By spirit or flesh, — I care not ! Love was made Stronger than bonds, and where they press must break them. I came to you that I might breathe at large, And now you stifle me with talk of birth, Of race and livery. Yet you knew Fedalma. She was your friend., Sephardo. And you know She is gone from me, — know the hounds are loosed To dog me if I seek her. SEPHARDO Yes, I know. Forgive me that I used untimely speech, Pressing a bruise. I loved her well, my lord: A woman mixed of such fine elements That were all virtue and religion dead She 'd make them newly, being what she was. DON SILVA Was? say not was, Sephardo! She still lives, — Is, and is mine; and I will not renounce What heaven, nay, what she gave me. I will sin, If sin I must, to win my life again. The fault lie with those powers who have embroiled The world in hopeless conflict, where all truth 164 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Fights manacled with falsehood, and all good Makes but one palpitating life with evil. (DoN SILVA pauses. SEPHARDO is silent.) Sephardo, speak! am I not justified? You taught my mind to use the wing that soars Above the petty fences of the herd: Now, when I need your doctrine, you are dumb. SEPHARDO Patience! Hidalgos want interpreters Of untold dreams and riddles; they insist On dateless horoscopes, on formulas To raise a possible spirit, nowhere named. Science must be their wishing cap; the stars Speak plainer for high largesse. No, my lord! I cannot counsel you to unknown deeds. Thus much I can divine: you wish to find Her whom you love, — to make a secret search. DON SILVA That is begun already: a messenger Unknown to all has been despatched this night. But forecast must be used, a plan devised, Ready for service when my scout returns, Bringing the invisible thread to guide my steps Toward that lost self my life is aching with. Sephardo, I will go: and I must go Unseen by all save you; though, at our need, !We may trust Alvar. SEPHARDO A grave task, my lord. Have you a shapen purpose, or mere will That sees the end alone and not the means? Resolve will melt no rocks. THE SPANISH GYPSY 165 DON SILVA But it can scale them. This fortress has two private issues: one, Which served the Gypsies' flight, to me is closed: Our bands must watch the outlet, now betrayed To cunning enemies. Remains one other, Known to no man save me: a secret left As heirloom in our house: a secret safe Even from him, — from Father Isidor. 'T is he who forces me to use it, — he : All 's virtue that cheats bloodhounds. Hear, Sephardo. Given, my scout returns and brings me news I can straight act on, I shall want your aid. The issue lies below this tower, your fastness, Where, by my charter, you rule absolute. I shall feign illness; you with mystic air Must speak of treatment asking vigilance (Nay, I am ill, — my life has half ebbed out). I shall be whimsical, devolve command On Don Diego, speak of poisoning, Insist on being lodged within this tower, And rid myself of tendance save from you And perhaps from Alvar. So I shall escape Unseen by spies, shall win the days I need To ransom her and have her safe enshrined. No matter, were my flight disclosed at last: I shall come back as from a duel fought Which no man can undo. Now you know all. Say, can I count on you? SEPHARDO For faithfulness In aught that I may promise — yes, my lord. But — for a pledge of faithfulness — this warning. 166 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT I will betray naught for your personal harm: I love you. But note this, — I am a Jew ; And while the Christian persecutes my race, I '11 turn at need even the Christian's trust Into a weapon and a shield for Jews. Shall Cruelty crowned — wielding the savage force Of multitudes, and calling savageness God Who gives it victory — upbraid deceit And ask for faithfulness? I love you well. You are my friend. But yet you are a Christian, Whose birth has bound you to the Catholic kings. There may come moments when to share my joy Would make you traitor, when to share your grief Would make me other than a Jew . . . DON SILVA What need To urge that now, Sephardo? I am one Of many Spanish nobles who detest The roaring bigotry of the herd, would fain Dash from the lips of king and queen the cup Filled with besotting venom, half infused By avarice and half by priests. And now, — Now when the cruelty you flout me with Pierces me too in the apple of my eye, Now when my kinship scorches me like hate Flashed from a mother's eye, you choose this time To talk of birth as of inherited rage Deep-down, volcanic, fatal, bursting forth From under hard-taught reason? Wondrous friendship ! My uncle Isidor's echo, mocking me, From the opposing quarter of the heavens, With iteration of the thing I know, That I 'm a Christian knight and Spanish noble ! THE SPANISH GYPSY 167 The consequence? Why, that I know. It lies In my own hands and not on raven tongues. The knight and noble shall not wear the chain Of false-linked thoughts in brains of other men. What question was there 'twixt us two, of aught That makes division? When I come to you I come for other doctrine than the Prior's. SEPHARDO My lord, you are o'erwrought by pain. My words, That carried innocent meaning, do but float Like little emptied cups upon the flood Your mind brings with it. I but answered you With regular proviso, such as stands In testaments and charters, to forefend A possible case which none deem likelihood; Just turned my sleeve, and pointed to the brand Of brotherhood that limits every pledge. Superfluous nicety, — the student's trick, Who will not drink until he can define What water is and is not. But enough. My will to serve you now knows no division Save the alternate beat of love and fear. There 's danger in this quest, — name, honour, life, — My lord, the stake is great, and are you sure . . . DON SILVA No, I am sure of naught but this, Sephardo, That I will go. Prudence is but conceit Hoodwinked by ignorance. There 's naught exists That is not dangerous and holds not death For souls or bodies. Prudence turns its helm To flee the storm and lands 'mid pestilence. Wisdom must end by throwing dice with folly 168 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT But for dire passion which alone makes choice. And I have chosen as the lion robbed Chooses to turn upon the ravisher. If love were slack, the Prior's imperious will Would move it to outmatch him. But, Sephardo, Were all else mute, all passive as sea-calms, My soul is one great hunger, — I must see her. Now you are smiling. Oh, you merciful men Pick up coarse griefs and fling them in the face Of us whom life with long descent has trained To subtler pains, mocking your ready balms. You smile at my soul's hunger. SEPHARDO Science smiles And sways our lips in spite of us, my lord, When thought weds fact, — when maiden prophecy Waiting, believing, sees the bridal torch. I use not vulgar measures for your grief, My pity keeps no cruel feasts; but thought Has joys apart, even in blackest woe, And seizing some fine thread of verity Knows momentary godhead. DON SILVA And your thought? SEPHARDO Seized on the close agreement of your words With what is written in your horoscope. DON SILVA Reach it me now. THE SPANISH GYPSY 169 SEPHARDO By your leave, Annibal. (He places ANNIBAL on PABLO'S lap and rises. The boy moves without waking., and his head falls on the opposite side. SEPHARDO fetches a cushion and lays PABLO'S head gently down upon it,, then goes to reach the parchment from a cabinet. ANNIBAL., hav- ing waked up in alarm, shuts his eyes quickly again and pretends to sleep.) DON SILVA I wish, by new appliance of your skill, Reading afresh the records of the sky, You could detect more special augury. Such chance oft happens, for all characters Must shrink or widen, as our wine-skins do, For more or less that we can pour in them; And added years give ever a new key To fixed prediction. SEPHARDO (returning with the parchment and re- seating himself) True ; our growing thought Makes growing revelation. But demand not Specific augury, as of sure success In meditated projects, or of ends To be foreknown by peeping in God's scroll. I say — nay, Ptolemy said it, but wise books For half the truths they hold are honoured tombs — Prediction is contingent, of effects Where causes and, concomitants are mixed To seeming wealth of possibilities 170 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Beyond our reckoning. Who will pretend To tell the adventures of each single fish Within the Syrian Sea? Show me a fish, I '11 weigh him, tell his kind, what he devoured, What would have devoured /Mm, — but for one Bias Who netted him instead; nay, could I tell That had Bias missed him, he would not have died Of poisonous mud,, and so made carrion, Swept off at last by some sea-scavenger? DON SILVA Ay, now you talk of fishes, you get hard. I note you merciful men: you can endure Torture of fishes and hidalgos. Follows? SEPHARDO By how much, then, the fortunes of a man Are made of elements refined and mixed Beyond a tunny's, what our science tells Of the stars' influence hath contingency In special issues. Thus, the loadstone draws, Acts like a will to make the iron submiss; But garlic rubbing it, that chief effect Lies in suspense; the iron keeps at large, And garlic is controller of the stone. And, so, my lord, your horoscope declares Naught absolutely of your sequent lot, But, by our lore's authentic rules, sets forth What gifts, what dispositions, likelihoods, The aspects of the heavens conspired to fuse With your incorporate soul. Aught more than this Is vulgar doctrine. For the ambient, THE SPANISH GYPSY 171 Though a cause regnant, is not absolute, But suffers a determining restraint From action of the subject qualities In proximate motion. DON SILVA Yet you smiled just now At some close fitting of my horoscope With present fact, — with this resolve of mine To quit the fortress? SEPHARDO Nay, not so, I smiled, Observing how the temper of your soul Sealed long tradition of the influence shed By the heavenly spheres. Here is your horoscope : The aspects of the moon with Mars conjunct, Of Venus and the Sun with Saturn, lord Of the ascendant, make symbolic speech Whereto your words gave running paraphrase. DON SILVA (impatiently) What did I say? SEPHARDO You spoke as oft you did When I was schooling you at Cordova, And lessons on the noun and verb were drowned With sudden stream of general debate On things and actions. Always in that stream I saw the play of babbling currents, saw A nature o'er-endowed with opposites Making a self alternate, where each hour Was critic of the last, each mood too strong 172 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT For tolerance of its fellow in close yoke. The ardent planets stationed as supreme, Potent in action, suffer light malign From luminaries large and coldly bright Inspiring meditative doubt, which straight Doubts of itself, by interposing act Of Jupiter in the fourth house fortified With power ancestral. So, my lord, I read The changeless in the changing; so I read The constant action of celestial powers Mixed into waywardness of mortal men, Whereof no sage's eye can trace the course And see the close. DON SILVA Fruitful result, O sage! Certain uncertainty. SEPHARDO Yea, a result Fruitful as seeded earth, where certainty Would be as barren as a globe of gold. I love you, and would serve you well, my lord. Your rashness vindicates itself too much, Puts harshness on of cobweb theory While rushing like a cataract. Be warned. Resolve with you is a fire-breathing steed, But it sees visions, and may feel the air Impassable with thoughts that come too late, Rising from out the grave of murdered honour. Look at your image in your horoscope: (Laying the horoscope before SILVA) You are so mixed, my lord, that each to-day May seem a maniac to its morrow. THE SPANISH GYPSY 173 DON SILVA (pushing away the horoscope, rising and turning to look out at the open window) No! No morrow e'er will say that I am mad Not to renounce her. Risks! I know them all. I Ve dogged each lurking, ambushed consequence. I Ve handled every chance to know its shape As blind men handle bolts. Oh, I 'm too sane, I see the Prior's nets. He does my deed; For he has narrowed all my life to this, - That I must find her by some hidden means. (He turns and stands close in front of SEPHARDO.) One word, Sephardo, — leave that horoscope, Which is but iteration of myself, And give me promise. Shall I count on you To act upon my signal? Kings of Spain Like me have found their refuge in a Jew, And trusted in his counsel. You will help me? SEPHARDO Yes, my lord, I will help you. Israel Is to the nations as the body's heart: Thus saith the Book of Light: and I will act So that no man may ever say through me ' Your Israel is naught," and make my deeds The mud they fling upon my brethren. I will not fail you, save, — you know the terms ; I am a Jew, and not that infamous life That takes on bastardy, will know no father, So shrouds itself in the pale abstract, Man. You should be sacrificed to Israel If Israel needed it. 174 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT DON SILVA I fear not that. I am no friend of fines and banishment, Or flames that, fed on heretics, still gape, And must have heretics made to feed them still. I take your terms, and, for the rest, your love Will not forsake me. SEPHARDO 'T is hard Roman love, That looks away and stretches forth the sword Bared for its master's breast to run upon. But you will have it so. Love shall obey. ( SILVA turns to the window again, and is silent for a few moments, looking at the sky.) DON SILVA See now, Sephardo, you would keep no faith To smooth the path of cruelty. Confess, The deed I would not do, save for the strait Another brings me to (quit my command, Resign it for brief space, I mean no more), — Were that deed branded, then the brand should fix On him who urged me. SEPHARDO Will it, though, my lord? DON SILVA I speak not of the fact, but of the right. SEPHARDO My lord, you said but now you were resolved. Question not if the world will be unjust THE SPANISH GYPSY 175 Branding your deed. If conscience has two courts With differing verdicts, where shall lie the appeal? Our law must be without us or within. The Highest speaks through all our people's voice, Custom, tradition, and old sanctities; Or he reveals himself by new decrees Of inward certitude. DON SILVA My love for her Makes highest law, must be the voice of God. SEPHARDO I thought, but now, you seemed to make excuse, And plead as in some court where Spanish knights Are tried by other laws than those of love. DON SILVA 'T was momentary. I shall dare it all. How the great planet glows, and looks at me, And seems to pierce me with his effluence! Were he a living God, these rays that stir In me the pulse of wonder were in him Fulness of knowledge. Are you certified, Sephardo, that the astral science shrinks To such pale ashes, dead symbolic forms For that congenital mixture of effects Which life declares without the aid of lore? If there are times propitious or malign To our first framing, then must all events Have favouring periods: you cull your plants By signal of the heavens, then why not trace As others would by astrologic rule Times of good augury for momentous acts, — As secret journeys? 176 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT SEPHARDO O my lord, the stars Act not as witchcraft or as muttered spells. I said before they are not absolute, And tell no fortunes. I adhere alone To such tradition of their agencies As reason fortifies. DON SILVA A barren science! Some argue now 't is folly. 'T were as well Be of their mind. If those bright stars had will,— But they are fatal fires, and know no love. Of old, I think, the world was happier With many gods, who held a struggling life As mortals do, and helped men in the straits Of forced misdoing. I doubt that horoscope. (DoN SILVA turns from the window and re- seats himself opposite SEPHARDO.) I am most self-contained, and strong to bear. No man save you has seen my trembling lip Uttering her name, since she was lost to me. I '11 face the progeny of all my deeds. SEPHARDO May they be fair! No horoscope makes slaves. 'T is but a mirror, shows one image forth, And leaves the future cjark with endless " ifs." DON SILVA I marvel, my Sephardo, you can pinch With confident selection these few grains, THE SPANISH GYPSY 177 And call them verity, from out the dust Of crumbling error. Surely such thought creeps, With insect exploration of the world. Were I a Hebrew, now, I would be bold. Why should you fear, not being Catholic? • SEPHARDO Lo! you yourself, my lord, mix subtleties With gross belief ; by momentary lapse Conceive, with all the vulgar, that we Jews Must hold ourselves God's outlaws, and defy All good with blasphemy, because we hold Your good is evil; think we must turn pale To see our portraits painted in your hell, And sin the more for knowing we are lost. DON SILVA Read not my words with malice. I but meant, My temper hates an over-cautious march. SEPHARDO The Unnamable made not the search for truth To suit hidalgos' temper. I abide By that wise spirit of listening reverence Which marks the boldest doctors of our race. For truth, to us, is like a living child Born of two parents : if the parents part And will divide the child, how shall it live? Or, I will rather say: Two angels guide The path of man, both aged and yet young, As angels are, ripening through endless years. On one he leans: some call her Memory, And some, Tradition; and her voice is sweet, With deep mysterious accords: the other, Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams VOL. XVII — 12 178 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT A light divine and searching on the earth, Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields, Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked But for Tradition; we walk evermore To higher paths, by brightening Reason's lamp. Still we are purblind, tottering. I hold less Than Aben-Ezra, of that aged lore Brought by long centuries from Chaldasan plains ; The Jew-taught Florentine rejects it all. For still the light is measured by the eye, And the weak organ fails. I may see ill; But over all belief is faithfulness, Which fulfils vision with obedience. So, I must grasp my morsels: truth is oft Scattered in fragments round a stately pile Built half of error; and the eye's defect May breed too much denial. But, my lord, I weary your sick soul. Go now with me Into the turret. We will watch the spheres, And see the constellations bend and plunge Into a depth of being where our eyes Hold them no more. We '11 quit ourselves and be The red Aldebaran or bright Sirius, And sail as in a solemn voyage, bound On some great quest we know not. DON SILVA Let us go. She may be watching too, and thought of her Sways me, as if she knew, to every act Of pure allegiance. THE SPANISH GYPSY 179 SEPHARDO That is love's perfection, — Tuning the soul to all her harmonies So that no chord can jar. Now we will mount. (Exeunt.) rA large hall in the Castle, of Moorish architecture. On the side where the windows are, an outer gal- lery. Pages and other young gentlemen at- tached to DON SILVA'S household, gathered chiefly at one end of the hall. Some are moving about; others are lounging on the carved benches; others, half stretched on pieces of matting and carpet, are gambling. ARIAS, a stripling of fifteen, sings by snatches in a boyish treble, as he walks up and down, and tosses back the nuts which another youth flings towards him. In the middle DON AMADOR, a gaunt, gray-haired sol- dier, in a handsome uniform, sits in a marble red-cushioned chair, with a large book spread out on his knees, from which he is reading aloud, while his voice is half drowned by the talk that is going on around him, first one voice and then another surging above the hum. ARIAS (singing) There was a holy hermit Who counted all things loss For Christ his Master's glory: He made an ivory cross, And as he knelt before it And wept his murdered Lord, The ivory turned to iron, The cross became a sword. 180 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT JOSE (from the floor) I say, twenty cruzados! thy Galician wit Can never count. HERNANDO (also from the floor) And thy Sevillian wit always counts double. ARIAS (singing) The tears that fell upon it, They turned to red, red rust, The tears that fell from off it Made writing in the dust. The holy hermit, gazing, Saw words upon the ground: " The sword be red forever With the blood of false Mahound." DON AMADOR (looking up from his book, and rais- ing his voice). What, gentlemen! Our glorious Lady defend us! ENRIQUEZ (from the benches) Serves the infidels right ! They have sold Chris- tians enough to people half the towns in Paradise. If the Queen, now, had divided the pretty damsels of Malaga among the Castilians who have been helping in the holy war, and not sent half of them to Naples . . . ARIAS (singing again) rAt the battle of Clavijo In the days of King Ramiro, Help us, Allah! cried the Moslem, Cried the Spaniard, Heaven's chosen, God and Santiago! THE SPANISH GYPSY 181 FABIAN Oh, the very tail of our chance has vanished. The royal army is breaking up, — going home for the winter. The Grand Master sticks to his own border. ARIAS ( singing ) Straight out-flushing like the rainbow, See him come, celestial Baron, Mounted knight, with red-crossed banner, Plunging earthward to the battle, Glorious Santiago! HUETADO Yes, yes, through the pass of By-and-by you go to the valley of Never. We might have done a great feat, if the Marquis of Cadiz . . . ABIAS (sings) As the flame before the swift wind, See, he fires us, we burn with him! Flash our swords, dash Pagans backward, — Victory he! pale fear is allah! God with Santiago! DON AMADOR (raising his voice to a cry) Sangre de Dios, gentlemen! . (He shuts the book, and lets it fall with a bang on the floor. There is instant silence. ) To what good end is it that I, who studied at Salamanca, and can write verses agreeable to the glorious Lady with the point of a sword which hath done harder service, am reading aloud in a 182 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT clerkly manner from a book which hath been culled from the flowers of all books, to instruct you in the knowledge befitting those who would be knights and worthy hidalgos. I had as lief be read- ing in a belfry. And gambling too I As if it were a time when we needed not the help of God and the saints ! Surely for the space of one hour ye might subdue your tongues to your ears that so your tongues might learn somewhat of civility and modesty. Wherefore am I master of the Duke's retinue, if my voice is to run along like a gutter in a storm? HURTADO (lifting up the book, and respectfully presenting it to DON AMADOR) Pardon, Don Amador ! The air is so commoved by your voice, that it stirs our tongues in spite of us. DON AMADOR (reopening the book) Confess, now, it is a goose-headed trick, that when rational sounds are made for your edifica- tion, you find naught in it but an occasion for pur- poseless gabble. I will report it to the Duke, and the reading-time shall be doubled, and my office of reader shall be handed over to Fray Domingo. (While DON AMADOR has been speaking, DON SILVA., with DON ALVAR, has appeared walking in the outer gallery on which the windows are opened.) ALL (in concert) No, no, no. THE SPANISH GYPSY 183 DON AMADOR Are ye ready, then, to listen, if I finish the wholesome extract from the Seven Parts, wherein the wise King Alfonso hath set down the reason why knights should be of gentle birth? Will ye now be silent? ALL Yes, silent. DON AMADOR But when I pause, and look up, I give any leave to speak, if he hath aught pertinent to say. (Reads) " And this nobility cometh in three ways : first , by lineage; secondly, by science; and thirdly, by valour and worthy behaviour. Now, although they who gain nobility through science or good deeds are rightfully called noble and gentle; neverthe- less, they are with the highest fitness so called who are noble by ancient lineage, and lead a worthy life as by inheritage from afar; and hence are more bound and constrained to act well, and guard them- selves from error and wrong-doing; for in their case it is more true that by evil-doing they bring injury and shame not only on themselves, but also on those from whom they are derived." (DoN AMADOR places his forefinger for a mark on the page, and looks up, while he keeps his voice raised, as wishing DON SILVA to overhear him in the judicious dis- charge of his function.) 184 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Hear ye that, young gentlemen? See ye not that if ye had but bad manners even, they disgrace you more than gross misdoings disgrace the low- born? Think you, Arias, it becomes the son of your house irreverently to sing and fling nuts, to the interruption of your elders? ARIAS (sitting on the floor and leaning backward on his elbows) Nay, Don Amador; King Alfonso, they say, was a heretic, and I think that is not true writing. For noble birth gives us more leave to do ill if we like. DON AMADOR (lifting his brows) What bold and blasphemous talk is this? ARIAS Why, nobles are only punished now and then, in a grand way, and have their heads cut off, like the Grand Constable. I shouldn't mind that. Nonsense, Arias ! nobles have their heads cut off because their crimes are noble. If they did what was unknightly, they would come to shame. Isn't that true, Don Amador? DON AMADOR Arias is a contumacious puppy, who will bring dishonour on his parentage. Pray, sirrah, whom did you ever hear speak as you have spoken? THE SPANISH GYPSY 185 ARIAS Nay, I speak out of my own head. I shall go and ask the Duke. HURTADO Now, now! you are too bold, Arias. AEIAS Oh, he is never angry with me (dropping his voice), because the Lady Fedalma liked me. She said I was a good boy, and pretty, and that is what you are not, Hurtado. HURTADO Girl-face ! See, now, if you dare ask the Duke. (DoN SILVA is just entering the hall from the gallery, with ALVAR behind him, intending to pass out at the other end. All rise with homage. DON SILVA bows coldly and abstractedly. ARIAS advances from the group, and goes up to DON SILVA.) ARIAS My lord, is it true that a noble is more dis- honoured than other men if he does aught dishonourable? DON SILVA (first blushing deeply, and grasping his sword, then raising his hand and giving ARIAS a blow on the. ear) Varlet! 186 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ARIAS My lord, I am a gentleman. (DON SILVA pushes him away, and passes on hurriedly.) DON ALVAR (following and turning to speak) Go, go ! you should not speak to the Duke when you are not called upon. He is ill and much distempered. (ARIAS retires, flushed, with tears in his eyes. His companions look too much surprised to triumph. DON AMADOR remains silent and confused.) The Placa Santiago during busy market-time. Mules and asses laden with fruits and vege- tables. Stalls and booths filled with wares of all sorts. A crowd of buyers and sellers. A stalwart woman with keen eyes, leaning over the panniers of a mule laden with apples, watches LORENZO, who is lounging through the market. As he approaches her, he is met by BLASCO. LORENZO Well met, friend. BLASCO Ay, for we are soon to part, And I would see you at the hostelry, To take my reckoning. I go forth to-day. LORENZO 'T is grievous parting with good company. I would I had the gold to pay such guests For all my pleasure in their talk. THE SPANISH GYPSY 187 BLASCO Why, yes; A solid-headed man of Aragon Has matter in him that you Southerners lack. You like my company, — 't is natural. But, look you, I have done my business well, Have sold and ta'en commissions. I come straight From — you know who — I like not naming him. I 'm a thick man : you reach not my backbone With any toothpick. But I tell you this : He reached it with his eye, right to the marrow! It gave me heart that I had plate to sell, For, saint or no saint, a good silversmith Is wanted for God's service ; and my plate — He judged it well — bought nobly. LORENZO A great man, And holy! BLASCO Yes, I 'm glad I leave to-day. For there are stories give a sort of smell, — One's nose has fancies. A good trader, sir, Likes not this plague of lapsing in the air, Most caught by men with funds. And they do say There 's a great terror here in Moors and Jews, I would say, Christians of unhappy blood. 'Tis monstrous, sure, that men of substance lapse, And risk their property. I know I 'm sound. No heresy was ever bait to me. Whate'er Is the right faith, that I believe, — naught else. 188 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT LORENZO Ay, truly, for the flavour of true faith Once known must sure be sweetest to the taste. But an uneasy mood is now abroad Within the town; partly, for that the Duke Being sorely sick, has yielded the command To Don Diego, a most valiant man, More Catholic than the Holy Father's self, Half chiding God that he will tolerate A Jew of Arab ; though 't is plain they 're made For profit of good Christians. And weak heads — Panic will knit all disconnected facts — Draw hence belief in evil auguries, Rumours of accusation and arrest, All air-begotten. Sir, you need not go. But if it must be so, I '11 follow you In fifteen minutes, — finish marketing, Then be at home to speed you on your way. BLASCO Do so. I '11 back to Saragossa straight. The court and nobles are retiring now And wending northward. There '11 be fresh de- mand For bells and images against the Spring, When doubtless our great Catholic sovereigns Will move to conquest of these eastern parts, And cleanse Granada from the infidel. Stay, sir, with God until we meet again 1 LORENZO Go, sir, with God, until I follow you! (Exit BLASCO. LORENZO passes on towards the market-woman,, who, as he approaches, raises herself from her leaning attitude.) THE SPANISH GYPSY 189 LORENZO Good day, my mistress. How 's your merchandise? Fit for a host to buy? Your apples now, They have fair cheeks; how are they at the core? MARKET-WOMAN Good, good, sir ! Taste and try. See, here is one Weighs a man's head. The best are bound with tow: They 're worth the pains, to keep the peel from splits. (She takes out an apple bound with tow, and, as she puts it into LORENZO'S hand, speaks in a lower tone.) 'T is called the Miracle. You open it, And find it full of speech. LORENZO Ay, give it me, I '11 take it to the Doctor in the tower. He feeds on fruit, and if he likes the sort I '11 buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive your ass Round to my hostelry. I '11 straight be there. You '11 not refuse some barter? MARKET-WOMAN No, not I. Feathers and skins. LORENZO Good, till we met again. (LORENZO, after smelling at the apple, puts it into a pouch-like basket which hangs be- fore him, and walks away. The woman drives of the mule.) 190 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT A LETTER " Zarca, the chief of the Zincali, greets The King El Zagal. Let the force be sent With utmost swiftness to the Pass of Luz. A good five hundred added to my bands Will master all the garrison: the town Is half with us, and will not lift an arm Save on our side. My scouts have found a way Where once we thought the fortress most secure: Spying a man upon the height, they traced, By keen conjecture piercing broken sight, His downward path, and found its issue. There A file of us can mount, surprise the fort And give the signal to our friends within To ope the gates for our confederate bands, Who will lie eastward ambushed by the rocks, Waiting the night. Enough; give me command, Bedmar is yours. Chief Zarca will redeem His pledge of highest service to the Moor : Let the Moor, too, be faithful and repay The Gypsy with the furtherance he needs To lead his people over Bahr el Scham And plant them on the shore of Africa. So may the King El Zagal live as one Who, trusting Allah will be true to him, Maketh himself as Allah true to friends." THE SPANISH GYPSY 191 BOOK III QUIT now the town, and with a journeying dre,am Swift as the wings of sound yet seeming slow Through multitudinous compression of stored sense And spiritual space, see walls and towers Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance, Giving no sign of that warm life within That moves and murmurs through their hidden heart. Pass o'er the mountain, wind in sombre shade, Then wind into the light and see the town Shrunk to white crust upon the darken rock. Turn east and south, descend, then rise anew 'Mid smaller mountains ebbing towards the plain: Scent the fresh breath of the height-loving herbs That, trodden by the pretty parted hoofs Of nimble goats, sigh at the innocent bruise, And with a mingled difference exquisite Pour a sweet burden on the buoyant air. Pause now and be all ear. Far from the south, Seeking the listening silence of the heights, Comes a slow-dying sound, — the Moslems' call To prayer in afternoon. Bright in the sun Like tall white sails on a green shadowy sea Stand Moorish watch-towers: 'neath that eastern sky Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza: Where the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold Of brave El Zagal. This is Moorish land, Where Allah lives unconquered in dark breasts And blesses still the many-nourishing earth With dark-armed industry. See from the steep 192 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The scattered olives hurry in gray throngs Down towards the valley, where the little stream Parts a green hollow 'twixt the gentler slopes ; And in that hollow, dwellings : not white homes Of building Moors, but little swarthy tents Such as of old perhaps on Asian plains, Or wending westward past the Caucasus, Our fathers raised to rest in. Close they swarm About two taller tents, and viewed afar Might seem a dark-robed crowd in penitence That silent kneel ; but come now in their midst And watch a busy, bright-eyed, sportive life! Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat, The ragged kirtle fringing at the knee Above the living curves, the shoulder's smoothness Parting the torrent strong of ebon hair. Women with babes, the wild and neutral glance Swayed now to sweet desire of mothers' eyes, Rock their strong cradling arms and chant low strains Taught by monotonous and soothing winds That fall at night-time on the dozing ear. The crones plait reeds, or shred the vivid herbs Into the caldron: tiny urchins crawl Or sit and gurgle forth their infant joy. Lads lying sphinx-like with uplifted breast Propped on their elbows, their black manes tossed back, Fling up the coin and watch its fatal fall, Dispute and scramble, run and wrestle fierce, Then fall to play and fellowship again; Or in a thieving swarm they run to plague The grandsires, who return with rabbits slung, And with the mules fruit-laden from the fields. Some striplings choose the smooth stones from the brook THE SPANISH GYPSY 193 To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares, Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark Of some exploring dog they dart away With swift precision towards a moving speck. These are the brood of Zarca's Gypsy tribe; Most like an earth-born race bred by the Sun On some rich tropic soil, the father's light Flashing in coal black eyes, the mother's blood With bounteous elements feeding their young limbs. The stalwart men and youths are at the wars Following their chief, all save a trusty band Who keep strict watch along the northern heights. But see, upon a pleasant spot removed From the camp's hubbub, where the thicket strong Of huge-eared cactus makes a bordering curve And casts a shadow, lies a sleeping man With Spanish hat screening his upturned face, His doublet loose, his right arm backward flung, His left caressing close the long-necked lute That seems to sleep too, leaning tow'rds its lord. He draws deep breath secure but not unwatched. Moving a-tiptoe, silent as the elves, As mischievous too, trip three barefooted girls Not opened yet to womanhood, — dark flowers In slim long buds : some paces farther off Gathers a little white-teethed shaggy group, A grinning chorus to the merry play. The tripping girls have robbed the sleeping man Of all his ornaments. Hita is decked With an embroidered scarf across her rags ; Tralla, with thorns for pins, sticks two rosettes Upon her threadbare woollen; Hinda now, Prettiest and boldest, tucks her kirtle up As wallet for the stolen buttons, — then Bends with her knife to cut from off the hat VOL. XVII — 13 194 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The aigrette and the feather; deftly cuts, Yet wakes the sleeper, who with sudden start Shakes off the masking hat and shows the face Of Juan: Hinda swift as thought leaps back, But carries off the feather and aigrette, And leads the chorus of a happy laugh, Running with all the naked-footed imps, Till with safe survey all can face about And watch for signs of stimulating chase, While Hinda ties long grass around her brow To stick the feather in with majesty. Juan still sits contemplative, with looks Alternate at the spoilers and their work. JUAN Ah, you marauding kite, — my feather gone ! My belt, my scarf, my buttons and rosettes ! This is to be a brother of Zincali! The fiery-blooded children of the Sun, — So says chief Zarca, — children of the Sun ! Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds To plague the decent body of mankind. Orpheus, professor of the gai saber, Made all the brutes polite, they say, by dint of song. Pregnant, — but as a guide in daily life Delusive. For if song and music cure The barbarous trick of thieving, 't is a cure That works as slowly as old Doctor Time In curing folly. Why, the minxes there Have rhythm in their toes, and music rings As readily from them as from little bells Swung by the breeze. Well, I will try the physic. (He touches Ms lute.) Hem! taken rightly, any single thing The Rabbis say, implies all other things. THE SPANISH GYPSY 195 A knotty task, though, the unravelling Meum and Tuum from a saraband : It needs a subtle logic, nay, perhaps, A good large property, to see the thread. (He touches the lute again.) There 's more of odd than even in this world, Else pretty sinners would not be let off Sooner than ugly; for if honeycombs Are to be got by stealing, they should go Where life is bitterest on the tongue. And yet, — Because this minx has pretty ways I wink At all her tricks, though if a flat-faced lass, With eyes askew, were half as bold as she, I should chastise her with a hazel switch, I 'm a plucked peacock, — even my voice and wit Without a tail! — why, any fool detects The absence of your tail, but twenty fools May not detect the presence of your wit. (He touches his lute again.) Well, I must coax my tail back cunningly, For to run after these brown lizards, — - ah ! I think the lizards lift their ears at this. (As he thrums his lute the lads and girls gradually approach: he touches it more briskly, and HINDA, advancing, begins to move arms and legs with an initiatory dancing movement, smiling coaxingly at JUAN. He suddenly stops, lays down his lute and folds his arms.) What, you expected a tune to dance to, eh? HINDA, HITA, TRALLA, AND THE REST (clapping their hands) Yes, yes, a tune, a tune I 196 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT JUAN But that is what you cannot have, my sweet brothers and sisters. The tunes are all dead, — dead as the tunes of the lark when you have plucked his wings off; dead as the song of the grasshopper when the ass has swallowed him. I can play and sing no more. Hinda has killed my tunes. (All cry out in consternation. HINDA gives a wail and tries to examine the lute. JUAN waves her off.) Understand, Senora Hinda, that the tunes are in me ; they are not in the lute till I put them there. And if you cross my humour, I shall be as tuneless as a bag of wool. If the tunes are to be brought to life again, I must have my feather back. ( HINDA kisses his hands and feet cocuvingly. ) No, no! not a note will come for coaxing. The feather, I say, the feather! ( HINDA sorrowfully takes off the feather, and gives it to JUAN.) Ah, now let us see. Perhaps a tune will come. (He plays a measure, and the three girls begin to dance; then he suddenly stops. ) No, the tune will not come : it wants the aigrette (pointing to it on HINDA'S neck). ( HINDA, with rather less hesitation, but again sorrowfully, takes off the aigrette, and gives it to him.) Ha! (he plays again, but, after rather a longer time, again stops.) No, no; 't is the buttons are wanting, Hinda, the buttons. This tune feeds THE SPANISH GYPSY 197 chiefly on buttons, — a hungry tune. It wants one, two, three, four, five, six. Good! (After HIND A has given up the buttons, and JUAN has laid them down one by one, he begins to play again, going on longer than before, so that the dancers become excited by the movement. Then he stops.) Ah, Hita, it is the belt, and, Tralla, the rosettes, — both are wanting. I see the tune will not go on without them. (HiTA and TRALLA take off the belt and rosettes, and lay them down quickly, being fired by the dancing, and eager for the music. All the articles lie by JUAN'S side on the ground.) Good, good, my docile wild-cats! Now I think the tunes are all alive again. Now you may dance and sing too. Hinda, my little screamer, lead off with the song I taught you, and let us see if the tune will go right on from beginning to end. (He plays. The dance begins again, HINDA singing. All the other boys and girls join in the chorus, and all at last dance wildly. ) SONG All things journey: sun and moon, Morning, noon, and afternoon, Night and all her stars: 'Twixt the east and western bars Round they journey, Come and go! We go with them! For to roam and ever roam Is the wild Zincali's home. 198 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Earth is good, the hillside breaks By the ashen roots and makes Hungry nostrils glad: Then we run till we are mad, Like the horses, And we cry, None shall catch us! Swift winds wing us, — we are free, — Drink the air, — Zincali we! Falls the snow: the pine-branch split, Call the fire out, see it flit, Through the dry leaves run, Spread and glow, and make a sun In the dark tent: O warm dark! Warm as conies! Strong fire loves us, we are warm! Who shall work Zincali harm? Onward journey: fires are spent; Sunward, sunward! lift the tent, Run before the rain, Through the pass, along the plain. Hurry, hurry, Lift us, wind! Like the horses. For to roam and ever roam Is the wild Zincali' 's home. (When the dance is at its height, HHSTDA breaks away from the rest, and dances round JUAN, who is now standing. As he, turns a little to watch her movement, some of the boys skip towards the feather, aigrette, §c., snatch them up, and run THE SPANISH GYPSY 199 away, swiftly followed by HITA, TRALLA, and the rest. HINDA, as she turns again, sees them, screams, and falls in her whirl- ing; but immediately gets up, and rushes after them, still screaming with rage.) JUAN Santiago ! these imps get bolder. Haha ! Senora Hinda, this finishes your lesson in ethics. You have seen the advantage of giving up stolen goods. Now you see the ugliness of thieving when prac- tised by others. That fable of mine about the tunes was excellently devised. I feel like an ancient sage instructing our lisping ancestors. My memory will descend as the Orpheus of Gypsies. But I must prepare a rod for those rascals. 1 11 bastinado them with prickly pears. It seems to me these needles will have a sound moral teaching in them. ( While JUAN takes a knife from his belt, and surveys the prickly pear, HINDA returns.) JUAN Pray, Senora, why do you fume? Did you want to steal my ornaments again yourself? HINDA (sobbing) No; I thought you would give them me back again. JUAN What, did you want the tunes to die again? Do you like finery better than dancing? 200 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT HlNDA Oh, that was a tale; I shall tell tales too, when I want to get anything I can't steal. And I know what I will do. I shall tell the boys I 've found some little foxes, and I will never say where they are till they give me back the feather! (She runs off again.) JUAN Hem! the disciple seems to seize the mode sooner than the matter. Teaching virtue with this prickly pear may only teach the youngsters to use a new weapon; as your teaching orthodoxy with fagots may only bring up a fashion of roasting. Dios ! my remarks grow too pregnant, — my wits get a plethora by solitary feeding on the produce of my own wisdom. (As he puts up his knife again, HINDA comes running back, and crying, " Our Queen! our Queen! " JUAN adjusts his garments and his lute, while HINDA turns to meet FEDALMA, who wears a Moorish dress, with gold ornaments, her black hair hanging round her in plaits, a white turban on her head, a dagger by her side. She carries a scarf on her left arm, which she holds up as a shade.) FEDALMA (patting HINDA'S head) How now, wild one? You are hot and panting. Go to my tent, and help Nouna to plait reeds. (HINDA kisses FED ALMA'S hand, and runs off. FEDALMA advances towards JUAN, who kneels to take up the edge of her cymar, and kisses it.) THE SPANISH GYPSY 201 JUAN How is it with you, lady? You look sad. FED ALMA Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day, The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless, Shining in all the barren crevices Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark, Where I may dream that hidden waters lie; As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man, Who, gazing from his narrow shoal of sand On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue, Sees that full light is errorless despair. The insects' hum that slurs the silent dark Startles, and seems to cheat me, as the tread Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, And hears them never pause, but pass and die. Music sweeps by me as a messenger Carrying a message that is not for me. The very sameness of the hills and sky Is obduracy, and the lingering hours Wait round me dumbly, like superfluous slaves, Of whom I want naught but the secret news They are forbid to tell. And, Juan, you — You, too, are cruel — would be over- wise In judging your friend's needs, and choose to hide Something I crave to know. JUAN I, lady? FED ALMA You. 202 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT JUAN I never had the virtue to hide aught, Save what a man is whipped for publishing. I 'm no more reticent than the voluble air, — Dote on disclosure, — never could contain The latter half of all my sentences, But for the need to utter the beginning. My lust to tell is so importunate That it abridges every other vice, And makes me temperate for want of time. I dull sensation in the haste to say 'T is this or that, and choke report with surmise. Judge, then, dear lady, if I could be mute When but a glance of yours had bid me speak. FED ALMA Nay, sing such falsities I — you mock me worse By speech that gravely seems to ask belief. You are but babbling in a part you play To please my father. Oh, 't is well meant, say you, — Pity for woman's weakness. Take my thanks. JUAN Thanks angrily bestowed are red-hot coin Burning your servant's palm. FED ALMA Deny it not, You know how many leagues this camp of ours Lies from Bedmar, — what mountains lie be- tween, — Could tell me if you would about the Duke, — That he is comforted, sees how he gains THE SPANISH GYPSY 203 By losing the Zincala, finds how slight The thread Fedalma made in that rich web, A Spanish noble's life. No, that is false! He never would think lightly of our love. Some evil has befallen him, — he 's slain, — Has sought for danger and has beckoned death Because I made all life seem treachery. Tell me the worst, — be merciful, — no worst, Against the hideous painting of my fear, Would not show like a better. JUAN If I speak, Will you believe your slave? For truth is scant; And where the appetite is still to hear And not believe, falsehood would stint it less. How say you? Does your hunger's fancy choose The meagre fact? FEDALMA (seating herself on the ground) Yes, yes, the truth, dear Juan. Sit now, and tell me all. JUAN That all is naught. I can unleash my fancy if you wish And hunt for phantoms : shoot an airy guess And bring down airy likelihood, — some lie Masked cunningly to look like royal truth And cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free, Or else some image of reality That doubt will handle and reject as false. Ask for conjecture, — I can thread the sky Like any swallow, but, if you insist, On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet 204 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Right to Bedmar, across the Moorish bounds, A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones Is better stored. FED ALMA And you have gathered naught About the border wars? No news, no hint Of any rumours that concern the Duke, — Rumours kept from me by my father? JUAN None. Your father trusts no secrets to the echoes. Of late his movements have been hid from all Save those few hundred picked Zincali breasts He carries with him. Think you he 's a man To let his projects slip from out his belt, Then whisper him who haps to find them strayed To be so kind as keep his counsel well? Why, if he found me knowing aught too much, He would straight gag or strangle me, and say, " Poor hound ! it was a pity that his bark Could chance to mar my plans: he loved my daughter, — The idle hound had naught to do but love, So followed to the battle and got crushed." FEDALMA (holding out her hand, which JUAN kisses) Good Juan, I could have no nobler friend. You 'd ope your veins and let your life-blood out To save another's pain, yet hide the deed With jesting, — say, 't was merest accident, A sportive scratch that went by chance too deep, — And die content with men's slight thought of you, Finding your glory in another's joy. THE SPANISH GYPSY 205 JUAN Dub not my likings virtues, lest they get A drug-like taste, and breed a nausea. Honey 's not sweet, commended as cathartic. Such names are parchment labels upon gems Hiding their colour. What is lovely seen Priced in a tariff? — lapis lazuli, Such bulk, so many drachmas: amethysts Quoted at so much ; sapphires higher still. The stone like solid heaven in its blueness Is what I care for, not its name or price. So, if I live or die to serve my friend 'T is for my love — 't is for my friend alone, And not for any rate that friendship bears In heaven or on earth. Nay, I romance, — I talk of Roland and the ancient peers. In me 't is hardly friendship, only lack Of a substantial self that holds a weight; So I kiss larger things and roll with them. FED ALMA Nay, you will never hide your soul from me ; I 've seen the jewel's flash, and know 't is there, Muffle it as you will. That foam-like talk Will not wash out a fear which blots the good Your presence brings me. Oft I 'm pierced afresh Through all the pressure of my selfish griefs By thought of you. It was a rash resolve Made you disclose yourself when you kept watch About the terrace wall : — your pity leaped Seeing my ills alone and not your loss, Self -doomed to exile. Juan, you must repent. 'T is not in nature that resolve, which feeds On strenuous actions, should not pine and die In these long days of empty listlessness. 206 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT JUAN Repent? Not I. Repentance is the weight Of indigested meals eat yesterday. 'T is for large animals that gorge on prey, Not for a honey-sipping butterfly. I am a thing of rhythm and redondillas, — The momentary rainbow on the spray Made by the thundering torrent of men's lives: No matter whether I am here or there; I still catch sunbeams. And in Africa, Where melons and all fruits, they say, grow large, Fables are real, and the apes polite, A poet, too, may prosper past belief: I shall grow epic, like the Florentine, And sing the founding of our infant state, Sing the Zincalo's Carthage. FED ALMA Africa ! Would we were there ! Under another heaven, In lands where neither love nor memory Can plant a selfish hope, — in lands so far I should not seem to see the outstretched arms That seek me, or to hear the voice that calls. I should feel distance only and despair; So rest forever from the thought of bliss, And wear my weight of life's great chain unstrug- Juan, if I could know he would forget, — Nay, not forget, forgive me, — be content That I forsook him for no joy, but sorrow; For sorrow chosen rather than a joy That destiny made base! Then he would taste No bitterness in sweet, sad memory, And I should live unblemished in his thought, THE SPANISH GYPSY 207 Hallowed like her who dies an unwed bride. Our words have wings, but fly not where we would. Could mine but reach him, Juan! JUAN Speak but the wish, — My feet have wings, — I '11 be your Mercury. I fear no shadowed perils by the way. No man will wear the sharpness of his sword On me. Nay, I 'm a herald of the Muse, Sacred for Moors and Spaniards. I will go, — Will fetch you tidings for an amulet. But stretch not hope too strongly towards that mark As issue of my wandering. Given, I cross Safely the Moorish border, reach Bedmar: Fresh counsels may prevail there, and the Duke Being absent in the field, I may be trapped. Men who are sour at missing larger game May wing a chattering sparrow for revenge. It is a chance no further worth the note Than as a warning, lest you feared worse ill If my return were stayed. I might be caged; They would not harm me else. Untimely death, The red auxiliary of the skeleton, Has too much work on hand to think of me; Or, if he cares to slay me, I shall fall Choked with a grape-stone for economy. The likelier chance is that I go and come, Bringing you comfort back. FEDALMA (starts from her seat and walks to a little distance, standing a few moments with her back towards JUAN, then she turns round quickly,, and goes towards him) No, Juan, no! Those yearning words come from a soul infirm, 208 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Crying and struggling at the pain of bonds Which yet it would not loosen. He knows all, — All that he needs to know: I said farewell: I stepped across the cracking earth and knew 'T would yawn behind me. I must walk right on. No, Juan, I will win naught by risking you: The possible loss would poison hope. Besides, 'T were treachery in me : my father wills That we — all here — should rest within this camp. If I can never live, like him, on faith In glorious morrows, I am resolute. While he treads painfully with stillest step And beady brow, pressed 'neath the weight of arms, Shall I, to ease my fevered restlessness, Raise peevish moans, shattering that fragile silence? No! On the close-thronged spaces of the earth A battle rages: Fate has carried me 'Mid the thick arrows : I will keep my stand, — Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast To pierce another. Oh, 't is written large The thing I have to do. But you, dear Juan, Renounce, endure, are brave, unurged by aught Save the sweet overflow of your good will. (She seats herself again.) JUAN Nay, I endure naught worse than napping sheep, When nimble birds uproot a fleecy lock To line their nest with. See! your bondsman, Queen, The minstrel of your court, is featherless; Deforms your presence by a moulting garb; Shows like a roadside bush culled of its buds. Yet, if your graciousness will not disdain A poor plucked songster, — shall he sing to you? THE SPANISH GYPSY 209 Some lay of afternoons, — some ballad strain Of those who ached once but are sleeping now Under the sun- warmed flowers? 'T will cheat the time. FED ALMA Thanks, Juan, later, when this hour is passed. My soul is clogged with self; it could not float On with the pleasing sadness of your song. Leave me in this green spot, but come again, — Come with the lengthening shadows. JUAN Then your slave Will go to chase the robbers. Queen, farewell! FEDALMA Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness! [While Juan sped along the stream, there came From the dark tents a ringing joyous shout That thrilled Fedalma with a summons grave Yet welcome too. Straightway she rose and stood, All languor banished, with a soul suspense Like one who waits high presence, listening. Was it a message, or her father's self That made the camp so glad? It was himself! She saw him now advancing, girt with arms That seemed like idle trophies hung for show Beside the weight and fire of living strength That made his frame. He glanced with absent triumph, As one who conquers in some field afar VOL. XVII — 14 210 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And bears off unseen spoil. But nearing her, His terrible eyes intense sent forth new rays, — A sudden sunshine where the lightning was 'Twixt meeting dark. All tenderly he laid His hand upon her shoulder; tenderly, His kiss upon her brow.] ZARCA My royal daughter! FEDALMA Father, I joy to see your safe return. ZARCA Nay, I but stole the time, as hungry men Steal from the morrow's meal, made a forced march, Left Hassan as my watch-dog, all to see My daughter, and to feed her famished hope With news of promise. FEDALMA Is the task achieved That was to be the herald of our flight? ZARCA "Not outwardly, but to my inward vision Things are achieved when they are well begun. The perfect archer calls the deer his own While yet the shaft is whistling. His keen eye Never sees failure, sees the mark alone. You have heard naught, then, — had no messenger? THE SPANISH GYPSY 211 FEDALMA I, father? no: each quiet day has fled Like the same moth, returning with slow wing, And pausing in the sunshine. ZARCA It is well. You shall not long count days in weariness. Ere the full moon has waned again to new, We shall reach Almeria: Berber ships Will take us for their freight, and we shall go With plenteous spoil, not stolen, bravely won By service done on Spaniards. Do you shrink? Are you aught less than a Zincala? FEDALMA No; But I am more. The Spaniards fostered me. ZARCA They stole you first, and reared you for the flames. I found you, rescued you, that you might live A true Zincala's life; else you were doomed. Your bridal bed had been the rack. FEDALMA (in a low tone) They meant — To seize me? — ere he came? ZAECA Yes, I know all. They found your chamber empty. 212 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FED ALMA (eagerly) Then you know, — (Checking herself.) Father, my soul would be less laggard, fed With fuller trust. ZARCA My daughter, I must keep The Arab's secret. Arabs are our friends, Grappling for life with Christians who lay waste Granada's valleys, and with devilish hoofs Trample the young green corn, with devilish play Fell blossomed trees, and tear up well-pruned vines: Cruel as tigers to the vanquished brave, They wring out gold by oaths they mean to break ; Take pay for pity and are pitiless; Then tinkle bells above the desolate earth, And praise their monstrous gods, supposed to love The flattery of liars. I will strike The full-gorged dragon. You, my child, must watch The battle with a heart, not fluttering But duteous, firm-weighted by resolve, Choosing between two lives, like her who holds A dagger which must pierce one of two breasts, And one of them her father's. Nay, you divine, — I speak not closely, but in parables; Put one for many. FEDALMA (collecting herself, and looking firmly at ZARCA) Then it is your will That I ask nothing? THE SPANISH GYPSY 213 ZARCA You shall know enough To trace the sequence of the seed and flower. El Zagal trusts me, rates my counsel high : He, knowing I have won a grant of lands Within the Berber's realm, wills me to be The tongue of his good cause in Africa, So gives us furtherance in our pilgrimage For service hoped, as well as service done In that great feat of which I am the eye, And my three hundred Gypsies the best arm. More, I am charged by other noble Moors With messages of weight to Telemsan. Ha, your eye flashes. Are you glad? FEDALMA Yes, glad That men are forced to honour a Zincalo. ZARCA Oh, fighting for dear life men choose their swords For cutting only, not for ornament. What naught but Nature gives, man takes per- force Where she bestows it, though in vilest place. Can he compress invention out of pride, Make heirship do the work of muscle, sail Towards great discoveries with a pedigree? Sick men ask cures, and Nature serves not hers Daintily as a feast. A blacksmith once Founded a dynasty and raised on high The leathern apron over armies spread Between the mountains like a lake of steel. 214 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FEDALMA (bitterly) To be contemned, then, is fair augury. That pledge of future good at least is ours. ZARCA Let men contemn us : 't is such blind contempt That leaves the winged broods to thrive in warmth Unheeded, till they fill the air like storms. So we shall thrive, — still darkly shall draw force Into a new and multitudinous life That likeness fashions to community, Mother divine of customs, faith, and laws. 'T is ripeness, 't is fame's zenith that kills hope. Huge oaks are dying, forests yet to come Lie in the twigs and rotten-seeming seeds. FEDALMA And our Zincali? Under their poor husk Do you discern such seed? You said our band Was the best arm of some hard enterprise; They give out sparks of virtue, then, and show There 's metal in their earth? ZAECA Ay, metal fine In my brave Gypsies. Not the lithest Moor Has lither limbs for scaling, keener eye To mark the meaning of the farthest speck That tells of change ; and they are disciplined By faith in me, to such obedience As needs no spy. My sealers and my scouts Are to the Moorish force they 're leagued withal As bow-string to the bow; while I their chief Command the enterprise and guide the will THE SPANISH GYPSY 215 Of Moorish captains, as the pilot guides With eye-instructed hand the passive helm. For high device is still the highest force, And he who holds the secret of the wheel May make the rivers do what work he would. With thoughts impalpable we clutch men's souls, Weaken the joints of armies, make them fly Like dust and leaves before the viewless wind. Tell me what 's mirrored in the tiger's heart, I '11 rule that too. FEDALMA (wrought to a glow of admiration) O my imperial father! 'T is where there breathes a mighty soul like yours That men's contempt is of good augury. ZABCA (seizing both FEDALMA'S hands, and look- ing at her searchingly) And you, my daughter, are you not the child Of the Zincalo? Does not his great hope Thrill in your veins like shouts of victory? "T is a vile life that like a garden pool Lies stagnant in the round of personal loves; That has no ear save for the tickling lute Set to small measures, — deaf to all the beats Of that large music rolling o'er the world: A miserable, petty, low-roofed life, That knows the mighty orbits of the skies Through naught save light or dark in its own cabin. The very brutes will feel the force of kind And move together, gathering a new soul, — The soul of multitudes. Say now, my child, You will not falter, not look back and long For unfledged ease in some soft alien nest. The crane with outspread wing that heads the fife 216 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Pauses not, feels no backward impulses: Behind it summer was, and is no more ; Before it lies the summer it will reach Or fall in the mid-ocean. And you no less Must feel the force sublime of growing life. New thoughts are urgent as the growth of wings ; The widening vision is imperious As higher members bursting the worm's sheath. You cannot grovel in the worm's delights: You must take winged pleasures, winged pains. Are you not steadfast? Will you live or die For aught below your royal heritage? To him who holds the flickering brief torch That lights a beacon for the perishing, Aught else is crime. Are you a false Zincala? FEDALMA Father, my soul is weak, the mist of tears Still rises to my eyes, and hides the goal Which to your undimmed sight is clear and change- less. But if I cannot plant resolve on hope It will stand firm on certainty of woe. I choose the ill that is most like to end With my poor being. Hopes have precarious life. They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness. But faithfulness can feed on suffering, And knows no disappointment. Trust in me! If it were needed, this poor trembling hand Should grasp the torch, — strive not to let it fall Though it were burning down close to my flesh, No beacon lighted yet: through the damp dark I should still hear the cry of gasping swimmers. Father, I will be true! THE SPANISH GYPSY 217 ZARCA I trust that word. And, for your sadness, — you are young, — the bruise . Will leave no mark. The worst of misery Is when a nature framed for noblest things Condemns itself in youth to petty joys, And, sore athirst for air, breathes scanty life Gasping from out the shallows. You are saved From such poor doubleness. The life we choose Breathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament.. Our deeds shall speak like rock-hewn messages, Teaching great purpose to the distant time. Now I must hasten back. I shall but speak To Nadar of the order he must keep In setting watch and victualling. The stars And the young moon must see me at my post. Nay, rest you here. Farewell, my younger self, — Strong-hearted daughter! Shall I live in you When the earth covers me? FEDALMA My father, death Should give your will divineness, make it strong With the beseechings of a mighty soul That left its work unfinished. Kiss me now: ( They embrace, and she adds tremulously as they part, ) And when you see fair hair be pitiful. [Exit ZARCA. (FEDALMA seats herself on the bank, leans her head forward, and covers her face with her drapery. While she is seated thus, 218 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT HINDA comes from the bank, with a branch of musk roses in her hand. Seeing FE- DALMA with head bent and covered, she pauses, and begins to move on tiptoe.) HINDA Our Queen! Can she be crying? There she sits As I did every day when my dog Saad Sickened and yelled, and seemed to yell so loud After we 'd buried him, I oped his grave. (She comes forward on tiptoe, kneels at FE- DALMA'S feet, and embraces them. FE- DALMA uncovers her head.) FED ALMA Hinda! what is it? HINDA Queen, a branch of roses, — So sweet, you '11 love to smell them. 'T was the last. I climbed the bank to get it before Tralla, And slipped and scratched my arm. But I don't mind. You love the roses, — so do I. I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain From off the shaken bush. Why will it not? Then all the valley would be pink and white And soft to tread on. They would fall as light As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once! Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go, Will it rain roses? THE SPANISH GYPSY 219 FED ALMA No, my prattler, no I It never will rain roses : when we want To have more roses we must plant more trees. But you want nothing, little one, — the world Just suits you as it suits the tawny squirrels. Come, you want nothing. HlNDA Yes, I want more berries, — Red ones, — to wind about my neck and arms When I am married, — on my ankles too I want to wind red berries, and on my head. FED ALMA Who is it you are fond of? Tell me, now. HlNDA O Queen, you know! It could be no one else But Ismael. He catches birds, — no end! Knows where the speckled fish are, scales the rocks And sings and dances with me when I like. How should I marry and not marry him? FED ALMA Should you have loved him, had he been a Moor, Or white Castilian? HIND A (starting to her feet, then kneeling again) Are you angry, Queen? Say why you will think shame of your poor Hinda? She 'd sooner be a rat and hang on thorns To parch until the wind had scattered her, Than be an outcast, spit at by her tribe. 220 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FED ALMA Hinda, I know you are a good Zincala. But would you part from Ismael? leave him now If your chief bade you, — said it was for good To all your tribe that you must part from him? HINDA (giving a sharp cry) Ah, will he say so? FED ALMA (almost fierce in her earnestness) Nay, child, answer me. Could you leave Ismael? get into a boat And see the waters widen 'twixt you two Till all was water and you saw him not, And knew that you would never see him more? If 't was your chief's command, and if he said Your tribe would all be slaughtered, die of plague, Of famine, — madly drink each other's blood .... HINDA (trembling) 0 Queen, if it is so, tell Ismael. FED ALMA You would obey, then? part from him forever? HINDA How could we live else? With our brethren lost?- No marriage feast? The day would turn to dark. Zincali cannot live without their tribe. 1 must obey! Poor Ismael — poor Hinda! But will it ever be so cold and dark? Oh, I would sit upon the rocks and cry, And cry so long that I could cry no more: Then I should go to sleep. THE SPANISH GYPSY 221 FED ALMA No, Hinda, no ! Thou never shall be called to part from him. I will have berries for thee, red and black, And I will be so glad to see thee glad, That earth will seem to hold enough of joy To outweigh all the pangs of those who part. Be comforted, bright eyes. See, I will tie These roses in a crown, for thee to wear. HINDA (clapping her hands, while FEDALMA puts the roses on her head) Oh, I 'm as glad as many little foxes, — I will find Ismael, and tell him all. (She runs off.) FEDALMA (alone) She has the strength I lack. Within her world The dial has not stirred since first she woke: No changing light has made the shadows die, And taught her trusting soul sad difference. For her, good, right, and law are all summed up In what is possible; life is one web Where love, joy, kindred, and obedience Lie fast and even, in one warp and woof With thirst and drinking, hunger, food, and sleep. She knows no struggles, sees no double path: Her fate is freedom, for her will is one With the Zincalo's law, the only law She ever knew. For me — oh, I have fire within, But on my will there falls the chilling snow Of thoughts that come as subtly as soft flakes, Yet press at last with hard and icy weight. I could be firm, could give myself the wrench And walk erect, hiding my life-long wound, 222 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT If I but saw the fruit of all my pain With that strong vision which commands the soul, And makes great awe the monarch of desire. But now I totter, seeing no far goal: I tread the rocky pass, and pause and grasp, Guided by flashes. When my father comes, And breathes into my soul his generous hope, — By his own greatness making life seem great, As the clear heavens bring sublimity, And show earth larger, spanned by that blue vast, — Resolve is strong: I can embrace my sorrow, Nor nicely weigh the fruit; possessed with need Solely to do the noblest, though it failed, — Though lava streamed upon my breathing deed And buried it in night and barrenness. But soon the glow dies out, the warrior's music That vibrated as strength through all my limbs Is heard no longer; over the wide scene There 's naught but chill gray silence, or the hum And fitful discord of a vulgar world. Then I sink helpless, — sink into the arms Of all sweet memories, and dream of bliss: See looks that penetrate like tones; hear tones That flash looks with them. Even now I feel Soft airs enwrap me, as if yearning rays Of some far presence touched me with their warmth And brought a tender murmuring. . . . [While she mused, A figure came from out the olive-trees That bent close-whispering 'twixt the parted hills Beyond the crescent of thick cactus: paused At sight of her; then slowly forward moved With careful step, and gently said, " FED ALMA ! " THE SPANISH GYPSY 223 Fearing lest fancy had enslaved her sense, She quivered, rose, but turned not. Soon again: " FEDALMA, it is SILVA! " Then she turned. He, with bared head and arms entreating beamed Like morning on her. Vision held her still One moment, then with gliding motion swift, Inevitable as the melting stream's, She found her rest within his circling arms.] FED ALMA O love, you are living, and believe in me! DON SILVA Once more we are together. Wishing dies, — Stifled with bliss. , FEDALMA You did not hate me, then, — Think me an ingrate, — think my love was small That I forsook you? DON SILVA Dear, I trusted you As holy men trust God. You could do naught That was not pure and loving, — though the deed Might pierce me unto death. You had less trust, Since you suspected mine. 'T was wicked doubt. FEDALMA Nay, when I saw you hating me the fault Seemed in my lot, — the poor Zincala's, — her On whom you lavished all your wealth of love As price of naught but sorrow. Then I said, " 'T is better so. He will be happier! " But soon that thought, struggling to be a hope, Would end in tears. 224 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT DON SILVA It was a cruel thought. Happier! True misery is not begun Until I cease to love thee. FED ALMA Silva! DON SILVA Mine! (They stand a moment or two in silence.) FED ALMA I thought I had so much to tell you, love, — Long eloquent stories, — how it all befell, — The solemn message, calling me away To awful spousals, where my own dead joy, A conscious ghost, looked on and saw me wed. DON SILVA Oh that grave speech would cumber our quick souls Like bells that waste the moments with their loud- ness. FED ALMA And if it all were said, 't would end in this, That I still loved you when I fled away. 'T is no more wisdom than the little birds Make known by their soft twitter when they feel Each other's heart beat. DON SILVA All the deepest things We now say with our eyes and meeting pulse: Our voices need but prattle. THE SPANISH GYPSY 225 FEDALMA I forget All the drear days of thirst in this one draught. (Again they are silent for a -few moments.) But tell me how you came? Where are your guards ? Is there no risk? And now I look at you, This garb is strange . . . r DON SILVA I came alone. FEDALMA Alone? DON SILVA Yes, — fled in secret. There was no way else To find you safely. FEDALMA (letting one hand fall and moving a little from him with a look of sudden terror, while he clasps her more firmly by the other arm) Silva! DON SILVA It is naught. Enough that I am here. Now we will cling. What power shall hinder us? You left me once To set your father free. That task is done, And you are mine again. I have braved all That I might find you, see your father, win His furtherance in bearing you away To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed? vot. xvn — 15 226 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FED ALMA Oh, I am trembling 'neath the rush of thoughts That come like griefs at morning, — look at me With awful faces, from the vanishing haze That momently had hidden them. DON SILVA What thoughts? FED ALMA Forgotten burials. There lies a grave Between this visionary present and the past. Our joy is dead, and only smiles on us A loving shade from out the place of tombs. DON SILVA Fedalma, your love faints, else aught that parts us Would seem but superstition. Love supreme Defies all sophistry, — risks avenging fires. I have risked all things. But your love is faint. FEDALMA (retreating a little, but keeping his hand) Silva, if now between us came a sword, Severed my arm, and left our two hands clasped, This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death. What parts us is a sword . . . (ZARCA has been advancing in the back- ground. He has drawn his sword, and now thrusts the naked blade between them. SILVA lets go FED ALMA'S hand, and grasps his sword. FEDALMA, startled at first, stands firmly, as if prepared to interpose between her father and the Duke.) THE SPANISH GYPSY 227 ZARCA Ay, 't is a sword That parts the Spanish noble and the true Zincala : A sword that was baptized in Christian blood, When once a band, cloaking with Spanish law Their brutal rapine, would have butchered us, And then outraged our women. (Resting the point of his sword on the ground) My lord Duke, I was a guest within your fortress once Against my will ; had entertainment too, — Much like a galley slave's. Pray, have you sought The poor Zincalo's camp, to find return For that Castilian courtesy? or rather To make amends for all our prisoned toil By this great honour of your unasked presence? DON SILVA Chief, I have brought no scorn to meet your scorn. I came because love urged me, — that deep love I bear to her whom you call daughter, — her Whom I reclaim as my betrothed bride. ZARCA Doubtless you bring for final argument Your men-at-arms who will escort your bride? DON SILVA I came alone. The only force I bring Is tenderness. Nay, I will trust besides In all the pleadings of a father's care To wed his daughter as her nurture bids. 228 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And for your tribe, — whatever purposed good Your thoughts may cherish, I will make secure With the strong surety of a noble's power: My wealth shall be your treasury. ZARCA (with irony) My thanks ! To me you offer liberal price; for her Your love's beseeching will be force supreme. She will go with you as a willing slave, Will give a word of parting to her father, Wave farewells to her tribe, then turn and say: " Now, my lord, I am nothing but your bride ; I am quite culled, have neither root nor trunk, Now wear me with your plume! " DON SILVA Yours is the wrong Feigning in me one thought of her below The highest homage. I would make my rank The pedestal of her worth; a noble's sword, A noble's honour, her defence; his love The life-long sanctuary of her womanhood. ZARCA I tell you, were you King of Aragon, And won my daughter's hand, your higher rank Would blacken her dishonour. 'T were excuse If you were beggared, homeless, spit upon, And so made even with her people's lot ; For then she would be lured by want, not wealth, To be a wife amongst an alien race To whom her tribe owes curses. THE SPANISH GYPSY 229 DON SILVA Such blind hate Is fit for beasts of prey, but not for men. My hostile acts against you should but count As ignorant strokes against a friend unknown; And for the wrongs inflicted on your tribe By Spanish edicts or the cruelty Of Spanish vassals, am I criminal? Love comes to cancel all ancestral hate, Subdues all heritage, proves that in mankind Union is deeper than division. ZARCA •Ay, Such love is common : I have seen it oft, — Seen many women rend the sacred ties That bind them in high fellowship with men, Making them mothers of a people's virtue; Seen them so levelled to a handsome steed That yesterday was Moorish property, To-day is Christian, — wears new-fashioned gear, Neighs to new feeders, and will prance alike Under all banners, so the banner be A master's who caresses. Such light change You call conversion; we Zincali call Conversion infamy. Our people's faith Is faithfulness; not the rote-learned belief That we are heaven's highest favourites, But the resolve that, being most forsaken Among the sons of men, we will be true Each to the other, and our common lot. You Christians burn men for their heresy: Our vilest heretic is that Zincala Who, choosing ease, forsakes her people's woes. The dowry of my daughter is to be 230 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Chief woman of her tribe, and rescue it. A bride with such a dowry has no match Among the subjects of that Catholic Queen Who would have Gypsies swept into the sea Or else would have them gibbeted. DON SILVA And you, Fedalma's father, — you who claim the dues Of fatherhood, — will offer up her youth To mere grim idols of your fantasy 1 Worse than all Pagans, with no oracle To bid you murder, no sure good to win, Will sacrifice your daughter, — to no god, But to a hungry fire within your soul, Mad hopes, blind hate, that like possessing fiends Shriek at a name! This sweetest virgin, reared As garden flowers, to give the sordid world Glimpses of perfectness, you snatch and thrust On dreary wilds; in visions mad, proclaim Semiramis of Gypsy wanderers; Doom, with a broken arrow in her heart, To wait for death 'mid squalid savages: For what? You would be saviour of your tribe; So said Fedalma's letter; rather say, You have the will to save by ruling men, But first to rule; and with that flinty will You cut your way, though the first cut you give Gash your child's bosom. ( While SILVA has been speaking, with grow- ing passion, FEDALMA has placed herself between him and her father.) ZARCA (with calm irony) You are loud, my lord ! You only are the reasonable man; THE SPANISH GYPSY 231 You have a heart, I none. Fedalma's good Is what you see, you care for; while I seek No good, not even my own, urged on by naught But hellish hunger, which must still be fed Though in the feeding it I suffer throes. Fume at your own opinion as you will: I speak not now to you, but to my daughter. If she still calls it good to mate with you, To be a Spanish duchess, kneel at court, And hope her beauty is excuse to men When women whisper, " She was a Zincala; " If she still calls it good to take a lot That measures joy for her as she forgets Her kindred and her kindred's misery, Nor feels the softness of her downy couch Marred by remembrance that she once forsook The place that she was born to, — let her go ! If life for her still lies in alien love, That forces her to shut her soul from truth As men in shameful pleasures shut out day; And death, for her, is to do rarest deeds, Which, even failing, leave new faith to men, The faith in human hearts, — then, let her go ! She is my only offspring; in her veins She bears the blood her tribe has trusted in; Her heritage is their obedience, And if I died, she might still lead them forth To plant the race her lover now reviles Where they may make a nation, and may rise To grander manhood than his race can show; Then live a goddess, sanctifying oaths, Enforcing right, and ruling consciences, By law deep-graven in exalting deeds, Through the long ages of her people's life. If she can leave that lot for silken shame, For kisses honeyed by oblivion, — 232 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The bliss of drunkards or the blank of fools, — Then let her go! You Spanish Catholics, When you are cruel, base, and treacherous, For ends not pious, tender gifts to God, And for men's wounds offer much oil to churches : We have no altars for such healing gifts As soothe the heavens for outrage done on earth. We have no priesthood and no creed to teach That the Zincala who might save her race And yet abandons it, may cleanse that blot, And mend the curse her life has been to men, By saving her own soul. Her one base choice Is wrong unchangeable, is poison shed Where men must drink shed by her poisoning will. Now choose, Fedalma! [But her choice was made. Slowly, while yet her father spoke, she moved From where oblique with deprecating arms She stood between the two who swayed her heart: Slowly she moved to choose sublimer pain; Yearning, yet shrinking; wrought upon by awe, Her own brief life seeming a little isle Remote through visions of a wider world With fates close-crowded; firm to slay her joy That cut her heart with smiles beneath the knife, Like a sweet babe foredoomed by prophecy. She stood apart, yet near her father: stood Hand clutching hand, her limbs all tense with will That strove against her anguish, eyes that seemed a soul Yearning in death towards him she loved and left. He faced her, pale with passion and a will Fierce to resist whatever might seem strong And ask him to submit : he saw one end, — He must be conqueror; monarch of his lot THE SPANISH GYPSY 233 And not its tributary. But she spoke Tenderly, pleadingly.] FEDALMA My lord, farewell! 'T was well we met once more ; now we must part. I think we had the chief of all love's joys Only in knowing that we loved each other. DON SILVA I thought we loved with love that clings till death, Clings as brute mothers bleeding to their young, Still sheltering, clutching it, though it were dead; Taking the death- wound sooner than divide. I thought we loved so. FEDALMA Silva, it is fate. Great Fate has made me heiress of this woe. You must forgive Fedalma all her debt: She is quite beggared: if she gave herself, 'T would be a self corrupt with stifled thoughts Of a forsaken better. It is truth My father speaks: the Spanish noble's wife Would be a false Zincala. I will bear The heavy trust of my inheritance. See, 't was my people's life that throbbed in me ; An unknown need stirred darkly in my soul, And made me restless even in my bliss. Oh, all my bliss was in our love; but now I may not taste it: some deep energy Compels me to choose hunger. Dear, farewell! I must go with my people. [She stretched forth 234 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Her tender hands, that oft had lain in his, The hands he knew so well, that sight of them Seemed like their touch. But he stood still as death ; Locked motionless by forces opposite: His frustrate hopes still battled with despair; His will was prisoner to the double grasp Of rage and hesitancy. All the travelled way Behind him, he had trodden confident, Ruling munificently in his thought This Gypsy father. Now the father stood Present and silent and unchangeable As a celestial portent. Backward lay The traversed road, the town's forsaken wall, The risk, the daring; all around him now Was obstacle, save where the rising flood Of love close pressed by anguish of denial Was sweeping him resistless; save where she Gazing stretched forth her tender hands, that hurt Like parting kisses. Then at last he spoke.] DON SILVA No, I can never take those hands in mine, Then let them go forever! FED ALMA It must be. We may not make this world a paradise By walking it together hand in hand, With eyes that meeting feed a double strength. We must be only joined by pains divine Of spirits blent in mutual memories. Silva, our joy is dead. THE SPANISH GYPSY 235 DON SILVA But love still lives, And has a safer guard in wretchedness. Fedalma, women know no perfect love: Loving the strong, they can forsake the strong; Man clings because the being whom he loves Is weak and needs him. I can never turn And leave you to your difficult wandering; Know that you tread the desert, bear the storm, Shed tears, see terrors, faint with weariness, Yet live away from you. I should feel naught But your imagined pains: in my own steps See your feet bleeding, taste your silent tears, And feel no presence but your loneliness. No, I will never leave you! ZAECA My lord Duke, I have been patient, given room for speech, Bent not to move my daughter by command, Save that of her own faithfulness. But now, All further words are idle elegies Unfitting times of action. You are here With the safe conduct of that trust you showed Coming alone to the Zincalo's camp. I would fain meet all trust with courtesy As well as honour; but my utmost power Is to afford you Gypsy guard to-night Within the tents that keep the northward lines, And for the morrow, escort on your way Back to the Moorish bounds. DON SILVA What if my words Were meant for deeds, decisive as a leap 236 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Into the current? It is not my wont To utter hollow words, and speak resolves Like verses banded in a madrigal. I spoke in action first: I faced all risks To find Fedalma. Action speaks again When I, a Spanish noble, here declare That I abide with her, adopt her lot, Claiming alone fulfilment of her vows As my betrothed wife. FEDALMA (wresting herself from him,, and stand- ing opposite with a look of terror) . Nay, Silva, nay! You could not live so; spring from your high place . . . DON SILVA Yes, I have said it. And you, chief, are bound By her strict vows, no stronger fealty Being left to cancel them. ZARCA Strong words, my lord! Sounds fatal as the hammer-strokes that shape The glowing metal: they must shape your life. That you will claim my daughter is to say That you will leave your Spanish dignities, Your home, your wealth, your people, to become A true Zincalo; share your wanderings, And be a match meet for my daughter's dower By living for her tribe; take the deep oath That binds you to us; rest within our camp, Nevermore hold command of Spanish men, And keep my orders. See, my lord, you lock A many- winding chain, — a heavy chain. THE SPANISH GYPSY 237 DON SILVA I have but one resolve: let the rest follow. What is my rank? To-morrow it will be filled By one who eyes it like a carrion bird, Waiting for death. I shall be no more missed Than waves are missed that leaping on the rock Find there a bed and rest. Life 's a vast sea That does its mighty errand without fail, Panting in unchanged strength though waves are changing. And I have said it. She shall be my people, And where she gives her life I will give mine. She shall not live alone, nor die alone. I will elect my deeds, and be the liege, Not of my birth, but of that good alone I have discerned and chosen. ZARCA Our poor faith Allows not rightful choice, save of the right Our birth has made for us. And you, my lord, Can still defer your choice, for some days' space. I march perforce to-night; you, if you will, Under Zincalo guard, can keep the heights With silent Time that slowly opes the scroll Of change inevitable; taking no oath Till my accomplished task leaves me at large To see you keep your purpose or renounce it. DON SILVA Chief, do I hear amiss, or does your speech Ring with a doubleness which I had held Most alien to you? You would put me off, And cloak evasion with allowance? Nol 238 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT We will complete our pledges. I will take That oath which binds not me alone, but you, To join my life forever with Fedalma's. ZAECA I wrangle not, — time presses. But the oath Will leave you that same post upon the heights; Pledged to remain there while my absence lasts. You are agreed, my lord? DON SILVA Agreed to all. ZARCA Then I will give the summons to our camp. We will adopt you as a brother now, In the Zincalo's fashion. [Exit ZAECA. ( SILVA takes FEDALMA'S hands. ) FED ALMA O my lord! I think the earth is trembling: naught is firm. Some terror chills me with a shadowy grasp. Am I about to wake, or do you breathe Here in this valley? Did the outer air Vibrate to fatal words, or did they shake *> Only my dreaming soul? You a Zincalo? DON SILVA Is then your love too faint to raise belief Up to that height? FED ALMA Silva, had you but said That you would die, — that were an easy task THE SPANISH GYPSY 239 For you who oft have fronted death in war. But so to live for me, — you, used to rule, — You could not breathe the air my father breathes : His presence is subjection. Go, my lord! Fly, while there yet is time. Wait not to speak. I will declare that I refused your love, — Would keep no vows to you . . . DON SILVA It is too late. You shall not thrust me back to seek a good Apart from you. And what good? Why, to face Your absence, — all the want that drove me forth To work the will of a more tyrannous friend Than any uncowled father. Life at least Gives choice of ills; forces me to defy, But shall not force me to a weak defiance. The power that threatened you, to master me, That scorches like a cave-hid dragon's breath, Sure of its victory in spite of hate, Is what I last will bend to, — most defy. Your father has a chieftain's ends, befitting A soldier's eye and arm: were he as strong As the Moors' prophet, yet the prophet too Had younger captains of illustrious fame Among the infidels. Let him command, For when your father speaks, I shall hear you. Life were no gain if you were lost to me: I would straight go and seek the Moorish walls, Challenge their bravest, and embrace swift death. The Glorious Mother and her pitying Son Are not Inquisitors, else their heaven were hell. Perhaps they hate their cruel worshippers, And let them feed on lies. I '11 rather trust They love you and have sent me to defend 'you. 240 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT FED ALMA I made my creed so, just to suit my mood And smooth all hardship, till my father came And taught my soul by ruling it. Since then I cannot weave a dreaming happy creed Where our love's happiness is not accursed. My father shook my soul awake. And you, — What the Zincala may not quit for you, I cannot joy that you should quit for her. DON SILVA Oh, Spanish men are not a petty band Where one deserter makes a fatal breach. Men, even nobles, are more plenteous Than steeds and armour; and my weapons left Will find new hands to wield them. Arrogance Makes itself champion of mankind, and holds God's purpose maimed for one hidalgo lost. See where your father comes and brings a crowd Of witnesses to hear my oath of love; The low red sun glows on them like a fire; This seems a valley in some strange new world, Where we have found each other, my Fedalma. THE SPANISH GYPSY 241 BOOK IV NOW twice the day had sunk from off the hiUs While Silva kept his watch there, with the band Of strong Zincali. When the sun was high He slept, then, waking, strained impatient eyes To catch the promise of some moving form That might be Juan, — Juan who went and came To soothe two hearts, and claimed naught for his own: Friend more divine than all divinities, Quenching his human thirst in others' joy. All through the lingering nights and pale chill dawns Juan had hovered near; with delicate sense, As of some breath from every changing mood, Had spoken or kept silence; touched his lute To hint of melody, or poured brief strains That seemed to make all sorrows natural, Hardly worth weeping for, since life was short, And shared by loving souls. Such pity welled Within the minstrel's heart of light-tongued Juan For this doomed man, who with dream-shrouded eyes Had stepped into a torrent as a brook, Thinking to ford it and return at will, And now waked helpless in the eddying flood, Hemmed by its raging hurry. Once that thought, How easy wandering is, how hard and strict The homeward way, had slipped from reverie Into low-murmured song; — (brief Spanish song 'Scaped him as sighs escape from other men) . VOL. XVII 16 242 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Push off the boat, Quit, quit the shore, The stars will guide us back: — O gathering cloud, O wide, wide sea, O waves that keep no track! On through the pines! The pillared woods, Where silence breathes sweet breath: — O labyrinth, O sunless gloom, The other side of death! Such plaintive song had seemed to please the Duke, — Had seemed to melt all voices of reproach To sympathetic sadness; but his moods Had grown more fitful with the growing hours, And this soft murmur had the iterant voice Of heartless Echo, whom no pain can move To say aught else than we have said to her. He spoke, impatient: "Juan, cease thy song. Our whimpering poesy and small-paced tunes Have no more utterance than the cricket's chirp For souls that carry heaven and hell within." Then Juan, lightly: " True, my lord, I chirp For lack of soul; some hungry poets chirp For lack of bread. 'T were wiser to sit down And count the star-seed, till I fell asleep With the cheap wine of pure stupidity." And Silva, checked by courtesy: " Nay, Juan, Were speech once good, thy song were best of speech. I meant, all life is but poor mockery: Action, place, power, the visible wide world THE SPANISH GYPSY 243 Are tattered masquerading of this self, This pulse of conscious mystery: all change, Whether to high or low, is change of rags. But for her love, I would not take a good Save to burn out in battle, in a flame Of madness that would feel no mangled limbs, And die not knowing death, but passing straight — Well, well, to other flames — in purgatory." Keen Juan's ear caught the self-discontent That vibrated beneath the changing tones Of life-contemning scorn. Gently he said: " But with her love, my lord, the world deserves A higher rate; were it but masquerade, The rags were surely worth the wearing? " " Yes. No misery shall force me to repent That I have loved her." So with wilful talk, Fencing the wounded soul from beating winds Of truth that came unasked, companionship Made the hours lighter. And the Gypsy guard, Trusting familiar Juan, were content, At friendly hint from him to still their songs And busy jargon round the nightly fires. Such sounds the quick-conceiving poet knew Would, strike on Silva's agitated soul Like mocking repetition of the oath That bound him in strange clanship with the tribe Of human panthers, flame-eyed, lithe-limbed, fierce, Unrecking of time-woven subtleties And high tribunals of a phantom-world. But the third day, though Silva southward gazed Till all the shadows slanted towards him, gazed Till all the shadows died, no Juan came. Now in his stead came loneliness, and thought Inexorable, fastening with firm chain 244 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT What is to what hath been. Now awful Night, Ancestral mystery of mysteries, came down Past all the generations of the stars, And visited his soul with touch more close Than when he kept that younger, briefer watch Under the church's roof beside his arms, And won his knighthood. Well, this solitude, This company with the enduring universe, Whose mighty silence carrying all the past Absorbs our history as with a breath, Should give him more assurance, make him strong In all contempt of that poor circumstance Called human life, — customs and bonds and laws Wherewith men make a better or a worse, Like children playing on a barren mound Feigning a thing to strive for or avoid. Thus Silva urged, answering his many-voiced self, Whose hungry needs, like petulant multitudes, Lured from the home that nurtured them to strength, Made loud insurgence. Thus he called on Thought, On dexterous Thought, with its swift alchemy To change all forms, dissolve all prejudice Of man's long heritage, and yield him up A crude fused world to fashion as he would. Thought played him double; seemed to wear the yoke Of sovereign passion in the noonday height Of passion's prevalence; but served anon As tribune to the larger soul which brought Loud-mingled cries from every human need That ages had instructed into life. He could not grasp Night's black blank mystery And wear it for a spiritual garb Creed-proof : he shuddered at its passionless touch. THE SPANISH GYPSY 245 On solitary souls, the universe Looks down inhospitable; the human heart Finds nowhere shelter but in human kind. He yearned towards images that had breath in them, That sprang warm palpitant with memories From streets and altars, from ancestral homes, Banners and trophies and the cherishing rays Of shame and honour in the eyes of man. These made the speech articulate of his soul, That could not move to utterance of scorn Save in words bred by fellowship; could not feel Resolve of hardest constancy to love, The firmer for the sorrows of the loved, Save by concurrent energies high-wrought To sensibilities transcending sense Through closest citizenship, and long-shared pains Of far-off labouring ancestors. In vain He sought the outlaw's strength, and made a right Contemning that hereditary right Which held dim habitations in his frame, Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty. At home, among his people, he had played In sceptic ease with saints and images And thunders of the Church that deadened fell Through screens of priests plethoric. Awe, un- scathed By deeper trespass, slept without a dream. But for such trespass as made outcasts, still The ancient Furies lived with faces new And lurked with lighter slumber than of old O'er Catholic Spain, the land of sacred oaths That might be broken. Now the former life Of close-linked fellowship, the life that made 246 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT His full-formed self, as the impregnant sap Of years successive frames the full-branched tree, — Was present in one whole; and that great trust His deed had broken turned reproach on him From faces of all witnesses who heard His uttered pledges ; saw him hold high place Centring reliance; use rich privilege That bound him like a victim-nourished god By tacit covenant to shield and bless; Assume the Cross and take his knightly oath Mature, deliberate: faces human all, And some divine as well as human: His Who hung supreme, the suffering Man divine Above the altar; Hers the Mother pure Whose glance informed his masculine tenderness With deepest reverence; the Archangel armed, Trampling man's enemy: all heroic forms That fill the world of faith with voices, hearts, And high companionship, to Silva now Made but one inward and insistent world With faces of his peers, with court and hall And deference, and reverent vassalage And filial pieties, — one current strong, The warmly mingled life-blood of his mind, Sustaining him even when he idly played With rules, beliefs, charges, and ceremonies As arbitrary fooling. Such revenge Is wrought by the long travail of mankind On him who scorns it, and would shape his life Without obedience. But his warrior's pride Would take no wounds save on the breast. He faced The fatal crowd: " I never shall repent! If I have sinned my sin was made for me THE SPANISH GYPSY 247 By men's perverseness. There 's no blameless life Save for the passionless, no sanctities But have the selfsame roof and props with crime, Or have their roots close interlaced with vileness. If I have loved her less, been more a craven, I had kept my place and won the easy praise Of a true Spanish noble. But I loved, And, loving, dared, — not Death the warrior But Infamy that binds and strips and holds The brand and lash. I have dared all for her. She was my good, — what other men call heaven And for the sake of it bear penances; Nay, some of old were baited, tortured, flayed To win their heaven. Heaven was their good, She, mine. And I have braved for her all fires Certain or threatened; for I go away Beyond the reach of expiation, — far away From sacramental blessing. Does God bless No outlaw? Shut his absolution fast In human breath? Is there no God for me Save Him whose cross I have forsaken? — Well, I am forever exiled, — but with her. She is dragged out into the wilderness; I, with my love, will be her providence. I have a right to choose my good or ill, A right to damn myself! The ill is mine. I never will repent! "... Thus Silva, inwardly debating, all his ear Turned into audience of a twofold mind; For even in tumult full-fraught consciousness Had plenteous being for a Self aloof That gazed and listened, like a soul in dreams Weaving the wondrous tale it marvels at. But oft the conflict slackened, oft strong Love With tidal energy returning laid All other restlessness: Fedalma came 248 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And with her visionary presence brought .What seemed a waking in the warm spring morn. He still was pacing on the stony earth Under the deepening night ; the fresh-lit fires Were flickering on dark forms and eyes that met His forward and his backward tread; but she, She was within him, making his whole self Mere correspondence with her image: sense, In all its deep recesses where it keeps The mystic stores of ecstasy, was transformed To memory that killed the hour, like wine. Then Silva said: " She, by herself, is life. What was my joy before I loved her, — what Shall Heaven lure us with, love being lost? " — For he was young. But now around the fires The Gypsy band felt freer; Juan's song Was no more there, nor Juan's friendly ways For links of amity 'twixt their wild mood And this strange brother, this pale Spanish duke, Who with their Gypsy badge upon his breast Took readier place within their alien hearts As a marked captive, who would fain escape. And Nadar, who commanded them, had known The prison in Bedmar. So now, in talk Foreign to Spanish ears, they said their minds, Discussed their chief's intent, the lot marked out For this new brother. Would he wed their queen? And some denied, saying their queen would wed A true Zincalo duke, — one who would join Their bands in Telemsan. But others thought Young Hassan was to wed her; said their chief Would never trust this noble of Castile, THE SPANISH GYPSY 249 Who in his very swearing was forsworn. And then one fell to chanting, in wild notes Recurrent like the moan of outshut winds, The adjuration they were wont to use To any Spaniard who would join their tribe: Words of plain Spanish, lately stirred anew And ready at new impulse. Soon the rest, Drawn to the stream of sound, made unison Higher and lower, till the tidal sweep Seemed to assail the Duke and close him round With force demonic. All debate till now Had wrestled with the urgence of that oath Already broken; now the newer oath Thrust its loud presence on him. He stood still, Close baited by loud-barking thoughts, — fierce hounds Of that Supreme, the irreversible Past. The ZINCALI sing Brother, hear and take the curse, Curse of soul's and body's throes, If you hate not all our foes, Cling not fast to all our woes, Turn a false Zincalo! May you be accurst By hunger and by thirst, By spiked pangs, Starvation's fangs Clutching you alone When none but peering vultures hear your moan. Curst by burning hands, Curst by aching brow, When on sea-wide sands Fever lays you low; By the maddened brain 250 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT When the running water glistens, And the deaf ear listens, listens, Prisoned fire within the vein On the tongue and on the lip Not a sip From the earth or skies; Hot the desert lies Pressed into your anguish, Narrowing earth and narrowing sky Into lonely misery. Lonely may you languish Through the day and through the night, Hate the darkness, hate the light, Pray and find no ear, Feel no brother near, Till on death you cry, Death who passes by, And anew you groan, Scaring the vultures all to leave you living lone. Curst by soul's and body's throes If you love the dark men's foes, Cling not fast to all the dark men's woes, Turn a false Zincalo! Swear to hate the cruel cross, The silver cross! Glittering, laughing at the blood Shed below it in a flood When it glitters over Moorish porches; Laughing at the scent of flesh When it glitters where the fagot scorches, Burning life's mysterious mesh: Blood of wandering Israel, Blood of wandering Ismael, Blood, the drink of Christian scorn, Blood of wanderers, sons of morn Where the life of men began: THE SPANISH GYPSY 251 Swear to hate the cross! — Sign of all the wanderers3 joes, Sign of all the wanderers' woes, — Else its curse light on you! Else the curse upon you light Of its sharp red-sworded might. May it lie a blood-red blight On all things within your sight: On the white haze of the morn, On the meadows and the corn, On the sun and on the moon, On the clearness of the noon, On the darkness of the night. May it fill your aching sight, — Red-cross sword and sword blood-red, — Till it press upon your head, Till it lie within your brain, Piercing sharp, a cross of pain, Till it lie upon your heart, Burning hot, a cross of fire, Till from sense in every part Pains have clustered like a stinging swarm In the cross's form, And you see naught but the cross of blood, And you feel naught but the cross of fire: Curst by all the cross's throes If you hate not all our foes, Cling not fast to all our woes, Turn a false Zincalo! A fierce delight was in the Gypsies' chant: They thought no more of Silva, only felt Like those broad-chested rovers of the night Who pour exuberant strength upon the air. To him it seemed as if the hellish rhythm, Revolving in long curves that slackened now, 252 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Now hurried, sweeping round again to slackness, Would cease no more. What use to raise his voice, Or grasp his weapon? He was powerless now, With these new comrades of his future, — he Who had been wont to have his wishes feared And guessed at as a hidden law for men. Even the passive silence of the night That left these howlers mastery, even the moon, Rising and staring with a helpless face, Angered him. He was ready now to fly At some loud throat, and give the signal so For butchery of himself. But suddenly The sounds that travelled towards no foreseen close Were torn right off and fringed into the night; Sharp Gypsy ears had caught the onward strain Of kindred voices joining in the chant. All started to their feet and mustered close, Auguring long- waited summons. It was come : The summons to set forth and join their chief. Fedalma had been called, and she was gone Under safe escort, Juan following her: The camp — the women, children, and old men — Were moving slowly southward on the way To Almeria. Silva learned no more. He marched perforce; what other goal was his Than where Fedalma was? And so he marched Through the dim passes and o'er rising hills, Not knowing whither, till the morning came. The Moorish hall in the castle at Eedmdr. The morning twilight dimly shows stains of blood on the white marble floor; yet there has been a care- ful restoration of order among the sparse objects of furniture. Stretched on mats lie three corpses, THE SPANISH GYPSY 253 the faces bare, the bodies covered with mantles. A little way off, with rolled matting for a pillow, lies ZARCA, sleeping. His chest and arms are bare; his weapons, turban, mail-shirt, and other upper garments lie on the floor beside him. In the outer gallery ZincaU are pacing, at intervals, past the arched openings. ZARCA (half rising and resting his elbow on the pil- low while he looks round) The morning! I have slept for full three hours; Slept without dreams, save of my daughter's face. Its sadness waked me. Soon she will be here, Soon must outlive the worst of all the pains Bred by false nurture in an alien home, — As if a lion in f angless infancy Learned love of creatures that with fatal growth It scents as natural prey, and grasps and tears, Yet with heart-hunger yearns for, missing them. She is a lioness. And they — the race That robbed me of her — reared her to this pain. He will be crushed and torn. There was no help. But she, my child, will bear it. For strong souls Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strength In furthest striving action; breathe more free In mighty anguish than in trivial ease. Her sad face waked me. I shall meet it soon Waking .... (He rises and stands looking at the corpses.) As now I look on these pale dead, These blossoming branches crushed beneath the fall Of that broad trunk to which I laid my axe With fullest foresight. So will I ever face In thought beforehand to its utmost reach The consequences of my conscious deeds; 254 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT So face them after, bring them to my bed, And never drug my soul to sleep with lies. If they are cruel, they shall be arraigned By that true name; they shall be justified By my high purpose, by the clear-seen good That grew into my vision as I grew, And makes my nature's function, the full pulse Of my Zincalo soul. The Catholics, Arabs, and Hebrews have their god apiece To fight and conquer for them, or be bruised Like Allah, and yet keep avenging stores Of patient wrath. Zincali have no god Who speaks to them and calls them his, unless I Zarca carry living in my frame The power divine that chooses them and saves. Life and more life unto the chosen, death To all things living that would stifle them! So speaks each god that makes a nation strong; Burns trees and brutes and slays all hindering men The Spaniards boast their god the strongest now; They win most towns by treachery, make most slaves, Burn the most vines and men, and rob the most. I fight against that strength, and in my turn Slay these brave young who duteously strove. Cruel? ay, it is cruel. But, how else? To save, we kill ; each blow we strike at guilt Hurts innocence with its shock. Men might well .seek For purifying rites ; even pious deeds Need washing. But my cleansing waters flow Solely from my intent. (He turns away from the bodies to where his garments lie, but does not lift them.) And she must suffer! THE SPANISH GYPSY 255 But she has looked on the unchangeable and bowed Her head beneath the yoke. And she will walk No more in chilling twilight, for to-day Rises our sun. The difficult night is past ; We keep the bridge no more, but cross it ; march Forth to a land where all our wars shall be With greedy obstinate plants that will not yield Fruit for their nurture. All our race shall come From north, west, east, a kindred multitude, And make large fellowship, and raise inspired The shout divine, the unison of resolve. So I, so she, will see our race redeemed. And their keen love of family and tribe Shall no more thrive on cunning, hide and lurk In petty arts of abject hunted life, But grow heroic in the sanctioning light, And feed with ardent blood a nation's heart. That is my work: and it is well begun. On to achievement! (He takes up the mail-shirt., and looks at it, then throws it down again.) No, I '11 none of you! To-day there '11 be no fighting. A few hours, And I shall doff these garments of the Moor: Till then I will walk lightly and breathe high. SEPHAEDO (appearing at the archway leading into the outer gallery) You bade me wake you .... ZAECA Welcome, Doctor; see, With that small task I did but beckon you To graver work. You know these corpses ? 256 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT SEPHARDO Yes. I would they were not corpses. Storms will lay The fairest trees and leave the withered stumps. This Alvar and the Duke were of one age, And very loving friends. I minded not The sight of Don Diego's corpse, for death Gave him some gentleness, and had he lived I had still hated him. But this young Alvar Was doubly noble, as a gem that holds Rare virtues in its lustre, and his death Will pierce Don Silva with a poisoned dart. This fair and curly youth was Arias, A son of the Pachecos ; this dark face — ZARCA Enough ! you know their names. I had divined That they were near the Duke, most like had served My daughter, were her friends. So rescued them From being flung upon the heap of slain. Beseech you, Doctor, if you owe me aught As having served your people, take the pains To see these bodies buried decently. And let their names be writ above their graves, As those of brave young Spaniards who died well. I needs must bear this womanhood in my heart, — Bearing my daughter there. For once she prayed, — 'T was at our parting, — " When you see fair hair Be pitiful." And I am forced to look On fair heads living and be pitiless. Your service, Doctor, will be done to her. SEPHARDO A service doubly dear. For these young dead, And one less happy Spaniard who still lives, THE SPANISH GYPSY 257 Are offerings which I wrenched from out my heart, Constrained by cries of Israel : while my hands Rendered the victims at command, my eyes Closed themselves vainly, as if vision lay Through those poor loopholes only. I will go And see the graves dug by some cypresses. ZARCA Meanwhile the bodies shall rest here. Farewell. [Earit SEPHARDO.) Nay, 't is no mockery. She keeps me so From hardening with the hardness of my acts. This Spaniard shrouded in her love, — I would He lay here too that I might pity him. Morning. — The Placa Santiago in Bedmdr. ^A crowd of townsmen forming an outer circle: within, Zincali and Moorish soldiers drawn up round the central space. On the higher ground in front of the church a stake with fagots heaped, and at a little distance a gibbet. Moorish music. ZARCA enters, wearing his gold necklace with the Gypsy badge of the flaming torch over the dress of a Moorish captain, accompanied by a small band of armed Zincali, who fall aside and range themselves with the other soldiers while he takes his stand in front of the stake and gibbet. The music ceases, and there is expectant silence. ZARCA Men of Bedmar, well-wishers, and allies, Whether of Moorish or of Hebrew blood, Who, being galled by the hard Spaniard's yoke, Have welcomed our quick conquest as release, I, Zarca, the Zincalo chieftain, hold VOL. XVII — 17 258 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT By delegation of the Moorish King Supreme command within this town and fort. Nor will I, with false show of modesty, Profess myself unworthy of this post, For so I should but tax the giver's choice. And, as ye know, while I was prisoner here, Forging the bullets meant for Moorish hearts, But likely now to reach another mark, I learned the secrets of the town's defence, Caught the loud whispers of your discontent, And so could serve the purpose of the Moor As the edge's keenness serves the weapon's weight. And my Zincali, lynx-eyed, lithe of limb, Tracked out the high Sierra's hidden path, Guided the hard ascent, and were the first To scale the walls and brave the showering stones. In brief, I reached this rank through service done By thought of mine and valour of my tribe, Yet hold it but in trust, with readiness To lay it down; for I and my Zincali Will never pitch our tents again on land The Spaniard grudges us : we seek a home Where we may spread and ripen like the corn By blessing of the sun and spacious earth. Ye wish us well, I think, and are our friends? CROWD Long life to Zarca and his strong Zincali! ZAECA Now, for the cause of our assembling here. 'T was my command that rescued from your hands That Spanish Prior and Inquisitor Whom in fierce retribution you had bound And meant to burn, tied to a planted cross. THE SPANISH GYPSY 259 I rescued him with promise that his death Should be more signal in its justice, — made Public in fullest sense, and orderly. Here, then, you see the stake, — slow death by fire; And there a gibbet, — swift death by the cord. Now hear me, Moors and Hebrews of Bedmar, Our kindred by the warmth of Eastern blood! Punishing cruel wrong by cruelty We copy Christian crime. Vengeance is just: Justly we rid the earth of human fiends Who carry hell for pattern in their souls. But in high vengeance there is noble scorn: It tortures not the torturer, nor gives Iniquitous payment for iniquity. The great avenging angel does not crawl To kill the serpent with a mimic fang; He stands erect, with sword of keenest edge That slays like lightning. So too we will slay The cruel man; slay him because he works Woe to mankind. And I have given command To pile these fagots, not to burn quick flesh, But for a sign of that dire wrong to men Which arms our wrath with justice. While, to show This Christian worshipper that we obey A better law than his, he shall be led Straight to the gibbet and to swiftest death. For I, the chief of the Zincali, will, My people shed no blood but what is shed In heat of battle or in judgment strict With calm deliberation on the right. Such is my will, and if it please you, — well. CROWD It pleases us. Long life to Zarca! 260 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ZARCA Hark! The bell is striking, and they bring even now The prisoner from the fort. What, Nadar? NADAR (has appeared, cutting the crowd, and ad- vancing toward ZARCA till he is near enough to speak in an undertone) Chief, I have obeyed your word, have followed it As water does the furrow in the rock. ZARCA Your band is here? NADAR Yes, and the Spaniard too. ZARCA 'T was so I ordered. NADAR Ay, but this sleek hound, Who slipped his collar off to join the wolves, Has still a heart for none but kennelled brutes. He rages at the taking of the town, Says all his friends are butchered ; and one corpse He stumbled on, — well, I would sooner be A dead Zincalo's dog, and howl for him, Than be this Spaniard. Rage has made him whiter. One townsman taunted him with his escape, And thanked him for so favouring us. ... THE SPANISH GYPSY 261 ZARCA Enough! You gave him my command that he should wait Within the castle, till I saw him? NADAR Yes. But he defied me, broke away, ran loose I know not whither; he may soon be here. I came to warn you, lest he work us harm. ZARCA Fear not, I know the road I travel by: Its turns are no surprises. He who rules Must humour full as much as he commands; Must let men vow impossibilities; Grant folly's prayers that hinder folly's wish And serve the ends of wisdom. Ah, he comes ! [Sweeping like some pale herald from the dead, Whose shadow-nurtured eyes, dazed by full light, See naught without, but give reverted sense To the soul's imagery, Silva came, The wondering people parting wide to get Continuous sight of him as he passed on, — This high hidalgo, who through blooming years Had shone on men with planetary calm, Believed in with all sacred images And saints that must be taken as they were, Though rendering meagre service for men's praise Bareheaded now, carrying an unsheathed sword, And on his breast, where late he bore the cross, Wearing the Gypsy badge, his form aslant, Driven, it seemed, by some invisible chase, Right to the front of Zarca. There he paused.] 262 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT DON SILVA Chief, you are treacherous, cruel, devilish, — Relentless as a curse that once let loose From lips of wrath, lives bodiless to destroy, And darkly traps a man in nets of guilt Which could not weave themselves in open day Before his eyes. Oh, it was bitter wrong To hold this knowledge locked within your mind, To stand with waking eyes in broadest light, And see me, dreaming, shed my kindred's blood. 'T is horrible that men with hearts and hands Should smile in silence like the firmament And see a fellow-mortal draw a lot On which themselves have written agony! Such injury has no redress, no healing Save what may lie in stemming further ill. Poor balm for maiming! Yet I come to claim it. ZAECA First prove your wrongs, and I will hear your claim. Mind, you are not commander of Bedmar, Nor duke, nor knight, nor anything for me, Save one Zincalo, one of my subject tribe, Over whose deeds my will is absolute. You chose that lot, and would have railed at me Had I refused it you : I warned you first What oaths you had to take . . . DON SILVA You never warned me That you had linked yourself with Moorish men To take this town and fortress of Bedmar, — Slay my near kinsmen, him who held my place, Our house's heir and guardian, — slay my friend, THE SPANISH GYPSY 263 My chosen brother, — desecrate the church Where once my mother held me in her arms, Making the holy chrism holier With tears of joy that fell upon my brow! You never warned . . . ZAECA I warned you of your oath. You shrank not, were resolved, were sure your place Would never miss you, and you had your will. I am no priest, and keep no consciences: I keep my own place and my own command. DON SILVA I said my place would never miss me — yes ! A thousand Spaniards died on that same day And were not missed; their garments clothed the backs That else were bare . . . ZARCA But you were just the one Above the thousand, had you known the die That fate was throwing then. DON SILVA You knew it, — you ! With fiendish knowledge, smiling at the end. You knew what snares had made my flying steps Murderous; you let me lock my soul with oaths Which your acts made a hellish sacrament. I say, you knew this as a fiend would know it, And let me damn myself. 264 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ZARCA The deed was done Before you took your oath, or reached our camp, — Done when you slipped in secret from the post 'T was yours to keep, and not to meditate If others might not fill it. For your oath, What man is he who brandishes a sword In darkness, kills his friends, and rages then Against the night that kept him ignorant? Should I, for one unstable Spaniard, quit My steadfast ends as father and as chief; Renounce my daughter and my people's hope, Lest a deserter should be made ashamed? DON SILVA Your daughter, — O great God ! I vent but mad- ness. The past will never change. I come to stem Harm that may yet be hindered. Chief — this stake — Tell me who is to die! Are you not bound Yourself to him you took in fellowship? The town is yours; let me but save the blood That still is warm in men who were my . . . ZARCA Peace! They bring the prisoner. [Zarca waved his arm With head averse, in peremptory sign That 'twixt them now there should be space and silence. Most eyes had turned to where the prisoner Advanced among his guards; and Silva too THE SPANISH GYPSY 265 Turned eagerly, all other striving quelled By striving with the dread lest he should see His thought outside him. And he saw it there. The prisoner was Father Isidor: The man whom once he fiercely had accused As author of his misdeeds, — whose designs Had forced him into fatal secrecy. The imperious and inexorable Will Was yoked, and he who had been pitiless To Silva's love, was led to pitiless death. O hateful victory of blind wishes, — prayers Which hell had overheard and swift fulfilled ! The triumph was a torture, turning all The strength of passion into strength of pain. Remorse was born within him, that dire birth Which robs all else of nurture, — cancerous, Forcing each pulse to feed its anguish, changing All sweetest residues of a healthy life To fibrous clutches of slow misery. Silva had but rebelled, — he was not free; And all the subtle cords that bound his soul Were tightened by the strain of one rash leap Made in defiance. He accused no more, But dumbly shrank before accusing throngs Of thoughts, the impetuous recurrent rush Of all his past-created, unchanged self. The Father came bareheaded, frocked, a rope Around his neck, — but clad with majesty, The strength of resolute undivided souls Who, owning law, obey it. In his hand He bore a crucifix, and praying, gazed Solely on that white image. But his guards Parted in front, and paused as they approached The centre, where the stake was. Isidor Lifted his eyes to look around him, — calm, Prepared to speak last words of willingness 266 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT To meet his death, — last words of faith unchanged, That, working for Christ's kingdom, he had wrought Righteously. But his glance met Silva's eyes And drew him. Even images of stone Look living with reproach on him who maims, Profanes, defiles them. Silva penitent Moved forward, would have knelt before the man Who still was one with all the sacred things That came back on him in their sacredness, Kindred, and oaths, and awe, and mystery. But, at the sight, the Father thrust the cross With deprecating act before him, and his face Pale-quivering, flashed out horror like white light Flashed from the angel's sword that dooming drave The sinner to the wilderness. He spoke.] FATHER ISIDOE Back from me, traitorous and accursed man! Defile not me, who grasp the holiest, With touch or breath! Thou foulest murderer! Fouler than Cain who struck his brother down In jealous rage, thou for thy base delight Hast oped the gate for wolves to come and tear Uncounted brethren, weak and strong alike, The helpless priest, the warrior all unarmed Against a faithless leader: on thy head Will rest the sacrilege, on thy soul the blood. These blind Zincali, misbelievers, Moors, Are but as Pilate and his soldiery; Thou, Judas, weighted with that heaviest crime Which deepens hell! I warned you of this end. A traitorous leader, false to God and man, A knight apostate, you shall soon behold Above your people's blood the light of flames Kindled by you to burn me, — burn the flesh THE SPANISH GYPSY 267 Twin with your father's. O most wretched man! Whose memory shall be of broken oaths, — Broken for lust, — I turn away mine eyes Forever from you. See, the stake is ready: And I am ready too. DON SILVA It shall not be! (Raising his sword he rushes in front of the guards who are advancing, and impedes them. ) If you are human, Chief, hear my demand! Stretch not my soul upon the endless rack Of this man's torture! ZAECA Stand aside, my lord! Put up your sword. You vowed obedience To me, your Chief. It was your latest vow. DON SILVA No! hew me from the spot, or fasten me Amid the fagots too, if he must burn. ZAECA What should befall that persecuting monk Was fixed before you came: no cruelty, No nicely measured torture, weight for weight Of injury, no luscious-toothed revenge That justifies the injurer by its joy: I seek but rescue and security For harmless men, and such security Means death to vipers and inquisitors. These fagots shall but innocently blaze 268 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT In sign of gladness, when this man is dead, That one more torturer has left the earth. 'T is not for infidels to hum live men And ape the rules of Christian piety. This hard oppressor shall not die by fire : He mounts the gibbet, dies a speedy death, That, like a transfixed dragon, he may cease To vex mankind. Quick, guards, and clear the path! [As well-trained hounds that hold their fleetness tense In watchful, loving fixity of dark eyes, And move with movement of their master's will, The Gypsies with a wavelike swiftness met Around the Father, and in wheeling course Passed beyond Silva to the gibbet's foot, Behind their chieftain. Sudden left alone With weapon bare, the multitude aloof, Silva was mazed in doubtful consciousness, As one who slumbering in the day awakes From striving into freedom, and yet feels His sense half captive to intangible things; Then with a flush of new decision sheathed His futile naked weapon, and strode quick To Zarca, speaking with a voice new-toned, The struggling soul's hoarse, suffocated cry Beneath the grappling anguish of despair.] DON SILVA Zincalo, devil, blackest infidel! You cannot hate that man as you hate me ! Finish your torture, — take me, — lift me up And let the crowd spit at me, — every Moor Shoot reeds at me, and kill me with slow death Beneath the midday fervour of the sun, — THE SPANISH GYPSY 269 Or crucify me with a thieving hound, — Slake your hate so, and I will thank it: spare me Only this man. ZARCA Madman, I hate you not. But if I did, my hate were poorly served By my device, if I should strive to mix A bitterer misery for you than to taste With leisure of a soul in unharmed limbs The flavour of your folly. For my course, It has a goal, and takes no truant path Because of you. I am your Chief: to me You are but a Zincalo in revolt. DON SILVA No, I am no Zincalo! I disown The name I took in madness. Here I tear This badge away. I am a Catholic knight, A Spaniard who will die a Spaniard's death! [Hark! while he casts the badge upon the ground And tramples on it, Silva hears a shout: Was it a shout that threatened him? He looked From out the dizzying flames of his own rage In hope of adversaries, — and he saw above The form of Father Isidor upswung Convulsed with martyr throes ; and knew the shout For wonted exultation of the crowd When malefactors die, — or saints, or heroes. And now to him that white-frocked murdered form Which hanging judged him as its murderer, Turned to a symbol of his guilt, and stirred Tremors till then unwaked. With sudden snatch At something hidden in his breast, he strode Right upon Zarca: at the instant, down 270 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back, Heard not the shriek of the Zincali, felt Not their fierce grasp, — heard, felt but Zarca's words Which seemed his soul outleaping in a cry And urging men to run like rival waves Whose rivalry is but obedience.] ZARCA (as he falls) My daughter! call her! Call my daughter! NADAR (supporting ZARCA and crying to the Gyp- sies who have clutched SILVA) Stay! Tear not the Spaniard, tie him to the stake: Hear what the Chief shall bid us, — there is time ! [Swiftly they tied him, pleasing vengeance so With promise that would leave them free to watch Their stricken good, their Chief stretched help- lessly Pillowed upon the strength of loving limbs. He heaved low groans, but would not spend his breath In useless words: he waited till she came, Keeping his life within the citadel Of one great hope. And now around him closed (But in wide circle, checked by loving fear) His people all, holding their wails suppressed Lest death believed-in should be over-bold : All life hung on their Chief, — he would not die ; His image gone, there were no wholeness left To make a world of for Zincali's thought. Eager they stood, but hushed; the outer crowd Spoke only in low murmurs, and some climbed THE SPANISH GYPSY 271 And clung with legs and arms on perilous coigns, Striving to see where that colossal life Lay panting, — lay a Titan struggling still To hold and give the precious hidden fire Before the stronger grappled him. Above The young bright morning cast athwart white walls Her shadows blue, and with their clear-cut line, Mildly inexorable as the dial-hand's Measured the shrinking future of an hour Which held a shrinking hope. And all the while The silent beat of time in each man's soul Made aching pulses. But the cry, " She comes! " Parted the crowd like waters: and she came. Swiftly as once before, inspired with joy, She flashed across the space and made new light, Glowing upon the glow of evening, So swiftly now she came, inspired with woe, Strong with the strength of all her father's pain, Thrilling her as with fire of rage divine And battling energy. She knew, — saw all : The stake with Silva bound, — her father pierced, — To this she had been born: the second time Her father called her to the task of life. She knelt beside him. Then he raised himself, And on her face there flashed from his the light As of a star that waned and flames anew In mighty dissolution: 'twas the flame Of a surviving trust, in agony. He spoke the parting prayer that was command, Must sway her will, and reign invisibly.] 272 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ZARCA My daughter, you have promised, — you will live To save our people. In my garments here I carry written pledges from the Moor: He will keep faith in Spain and Africa. Your weakness may be stronger than my strength, Winning more love. I cannot tell the end. I held my people's good within my breast. Behold, now I deliver it to you. See, it still breathes unstrangled, — if it dies, Let not your failing will be murderer. Rise, And tell our people now I wait in pain, — I cannot die until I hear them say They will obey you. [Meek, she pressed her lips With slow solemnity upon his brow, Sealing her pledges. Firmly then she rose, And met her people's eyes with kindred gaze, Dark-flashing, fired by effort strenuous Trampling on pain.] FEDALMA Zincali all, who hearl Your Chief is dying: I his daughter live To do his dying will. He asks you now To promise me obedience as your Queen, That we may seek the land he won for us, And live the better life for which he toiled. Speak now, and fill my father's dying ear With promise that you will obey him dead, Obeying me his child. [Straightway arose A shout of promise, sharpening into cries That seemed to plead despairingly with death.] THE SPANISH GYPSY 273 THE ZINCALI We will obey! Our Chief shall never die! We will obey him, — will obey our Queen ! [The shout unanimous, the concurrent rush Of many voices, quiring shook the air With multitudinous wave: now rose, now fell, Then rose again, the echoes following slow, As if the scattered brethren of the tribe Had caught afar and joined the ready vow. Then some could hold no longer, but must rush To kiss his dying feet, and some to kiss The hem of their Queen's garment. But she raised Her hand to hush them. " Hark! your Chief may speak Another wish." Quickly she kneeled again, While they upon the ground kept motionless, With head outstretched. They heard his words; for now, Grasping at Nadar's arm, he spoke more loud, As one who, having fought and conquered, hurls His strength away with hurling off his shield.] ZAECA Let loose the Spaniard! give him back his sword; He cannot move to any vengeance more, — His soul is locked 'twixt two opposing crimes. I charge you let him go unharmed and free Now through your midst. . . . [With that he sank again, — His breast heaved strongly tow'rd sharp sudden falls, And all his life seemed needed for each breath: Yet once he spoke.] VOL. XVII — 18 274 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT My daughter, lay your arm Beneath my head, — so, — bend and breathe on me. I cannot see you more, — the Night is come. Be strong, — remember, — I can only — die. [His voice went into silence, but his breast Heaved long and moaned : its broad strength kept a life That heard naught, saw naught, save what once had been, And what might be in days and realms afar, — Which now in pale procession faded on Toward the thick darkness. And she bent above In sacramental watch to see great Death, Companion of her future, who would wear Forever in her eyes her father's form. And yet she knew that hurrying feet had gone To do the Chief's behest, and in her soul He who was once its lord was being jarred With loosening of cords, that would not loose The tightening torture of his anguish. This, — Oh she knew it ! — knew it as martyrs knew The prongs that tore their flesh, while yet their tongues Refused the ease of lies. In moments high Space widens in the soul. And so she knelt, Clinging with piety and awed resolve Beside this altar of her father's life, Seeing long travel under solemn suns Stretching beyond it; never turned her eyes, Yet felt that Silva passed; beheld his face Pale, vivid, all alone, imploring her Across black waters fathomless. THE SPANISH GYPSY 275 And he passed. The Gypsies made wide pathway, shrank aloof As those who fear to touch the thing they hate, Lest hate triumphant, mastering all the limbs, Should tear, bite, crush, in spite of hindering will. Slowly he walked, reluctant to be safe And bear dishonoured life which none assailed; Walked hesitatingly, all his frame instinct With high-born spirit, never used to dread Or crouch for smiles, yet stung, yet quivering With helpless strength, and in his soul convulsed By visions where pale horror held a lamp Over wide-reaching crime. Silence hung round: It seemed the Pla9a hushed itself to hear His footsteps and the Chief's deep dying breath. Eyes quickened in the stillness, and the light Seemed one clear gaze upon his misery. And yet he could not pass her without pause: One instant he must pause and look at her; But with that glance at her averted head, New-urged by pain he turned away and went, Carrying forever with him what he fled, — Her murdered love, — her love, a dear wronged ghost, Facing him, beauteous, 'mid the throngs of hell. O fallen and forsaken! were no hearts Amid that crowd, mindful of what had been? — Hearts such as wait on beggared royalty, Or silent watch by sinners who despair? Silva had vanished. That dismissed revenge Made larger room for sorrow in fierce hearts; And sorrow filled them. For the Chief was dead, The mighty breast subsided slow to calm, Slow from the face the ethereal spirit waned, As wanes the parting glory from the heights, 276 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And leaves them in their pallid majesty. Fedalma kissed the marble lips and said, " He breathes no more." And then a long loud wail Poured out upon the morning, made her light Ghastly as smiles on some fair maniac's face Smiling unconscious o'er her bridegroom's corse. The wailing men in eager press closed round, And made a shadowing pall beneath the sun. They lifted reverent the prostrate strength, Sceptred anew by death. Fedalma walked Tearless, erect, following the dead, — her cries Deep smothering in her breast, as one who guides Her children through the wilds, and sees and knows Of danger more than they, and feels more pangs, Yet shrinks not, groans not, bearing in her heart Their ignorant misery and their trust in her. THE SPANISH GYPSY 277 BOOK V THE eastward rocks of Almeria's bay Answer long farewells of the travelling sun With softest glow as from an inward pulse Changing and flushing: all the Moorish ships Seem conscious too, and shoot out sudden shadows ; Their black hulls snatch a glory, and their sails Show variegated radiance, gently stirred Like broad wings poised. Two galleys moored apart Show decks as busy as a home of ants Storing new forage; from their sides the boats Slowly pushed off, anon with flashing oar Make transit to the quay's smooth-quarried edge Where thronging Gypsies are in haste to lade Each as it comes with grandames, babes, and wives, Or with dust-tinted goods, the company Of wandering years. Naught seems to lie un- moved, For 'mid the throng the lights and shadows play, And make all surface eager, while the boats Sway restless as a horse that heard the shouts And surging hum incessant. Naked limbs With beauteous ease bend, lift, and throw, or raise High signalling hands. The black-haired mother steps Athwart the boat's edge, and with opened arms, A wandering Isis outcast from the gods, Leans towards her lifted little one. The boat Full-laden cuts the waves, and dirge-like cries Rise and then fall within it as it moves From high to lower and from bright to dark. Hither and thither, grave white-turbaned Moors 278 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Move helpfully, and some bring welcome gifts, Bright stuffs and cutlery, and bags of seed To make new waving crops in Africa. Others aloof with folded arms slow-eyed Survey man's labour, saying, " God is great; " Or seek with question deep the Gypsies' root, And whether their false faith, being small, will prove Less damning than the copious false creeds Of Jews and Christians: Moslem subtlety Found balanced reasons, warranting suspense As to whose hell was deepest, — 't was enough That there was room for all. Thus the sedate. The younger heads were busy with the tale Of that great Chief whose exploits helped the Moor. And, talking still, they shouldered past their friends, Following some lure which held their distant gaze To eastward of the quay, where yet remained A low black tent close guarded all around By armed Zincali. Fronting it above, Raised by stone steps that sought a jutting strand, Fedalma stood and marked with anxious watch Each laden boat the remnant lessening Of cargo on the shore, or traced the course Of Nadar to and fro in hard command Of noisy tumult ; imaging oft anew How much of labour still deferred the hour When they must lift the boat and bear away Her father's coffin, and her feet must quit This shore forever. Motionless she stood, Black-crowned with wreaths of many-shadowed hair; Black-robed, but wearing wide upon her breast Her father's golden necklace and his badge. 279 Her limbs were motionless, but in her eyes And in her breathing lip's soft tremulous curve Was intense motion as of prisoned fire Escaping subtly in outleaping thought. She watches anxiously, and yet she dreams: The busy moments now expand, now shrink To narrowing swarms within the refluent space Of changeful consciousness. For in her thought Already she has left the fading shore, Sails with her people, seeks an unknown land, And bears the burning length of weary days That parching fall upon her father's hope, Which she must plant and see it wither only, — Wither and die. She saw the end begun. Zincali hearts were not unfaithful: she Was centre to the savage loyalty Which vowed obedience to Zarca dead. But soon their natures missed the constant stress Of his command, that, while it fired, restrained By urgency supreme, and left no play To fickle impulse scattering desire. They loved their Queen, trusted in Zarca's child, Would bear her o'er the desert on their arms And think the weight a gladsome victory; But that great force which knit them into one, The invisible passion of her father's soul, That wrought them visibly into its will, And would have bound their lives with perma- nence, Was gone. Already Hassan and two bands, Drawn by fresh baits of gain, had newly sold Their service to the Moors, despite her call, Known as the echo of her father's will, To all the tribe, that they should pass with her Straightway to Telemsan. They were not moved By worse rebellion than the wilful wish 280 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT To fashion their own service; they still meant To come when it should suit them. But she said, This is the cloud no bigger than a hand, Sure-threatening. In a little while, the tribe That was to be the ensign of the race, And draw it into conscious union, Itself would break in small and scattered bands That, living on scant prey, would still disperse And propagate forgetfulness. Brief years, And that great purpose fed with vital fire That might have glowed for half a century, Subduing, quickening, shaping, like a sun, — Would be a faint tradition, flickering low In dying memories, fringing with dim light The nearer dark. Far, far the future stretched Beyond that busy present on the quay, Far her straight path beyond it. Yet she watched To mark the growing hour, and yet in dream Alternate she beheld another track, And felt herself unseen pursuing it Close to a wanderer, who with haggard gaze Looked out on loneliness. The backward years — Oh she would not forget them — would not drink Of waters that brought rest, while he far off Remembered. " Father, I renounced the joy, — You must forgive the sorrow." So she stood, Her struggling life compressed into that hour, Yearning, resolving, conquering; though she seemed Still as a tutelary image sent To guard her people and to be the strength Of some rock-citadel. Below her sat THE SPANISH GYPSY 281 Slim mischievous Hinda, happy, red-bedecked With row of berries, grinning, nodding oft, And shaking high her small dark arm and hand Responsive to the black-maned Ismael, Who held aloft his spoil, and clad in skins Seemed the Boy prophet of the wilderness Escaped from tasks prophetic. But anon Hinda would backward turn upon her knees, And like a pretty loving hound would bend To fondle her Queen's feet, then lift her head Hoping to feel the gently pressing palm Which touched the deeper sense. Fedalma knew, — From out the black robe stretched her speaking hand And shared the girl's content. So the dire hours Burdened with destiny, — the death of hopes Darkening long generations, or the birth Of thoughts undying, — such hours sweep along In their aerial ocean measureless Myriads of little joys, that ripen sweet And soothe the sorrowful spirit of the world, Groaning and travailing with the painful birth Of slow redemption. But emerging now From eastward fringing lines of idling men Quick Juan lightly sought the upward steps Behind Fedalma, and two paces off, With head uncovered, said in gentle tones, " Lady Fedalma! " — (Juan's password now Used by no other,) and Fedalma turned, Knowing who sought her. He advanced a step, And meeting straight her large calm questioning gaze, Warned her of some grave purport by a face That told of trouble. Lower still he spoke. 282 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT JUAN Look from me, lady, towards a moving form That quits the crowd and seeks the lonelier strand, — A tall and gray-clad pilgrim . . . [Solemnly His low tones fell on her, as if she passed Into religious dimness among tombs, And trod on names in everlasting rest. Lingeringly she looked, and then with voice Deep and yet soft, like notes from some long chord Responsive to thrilled air, said:] FEDALMA It is he ! [Juan kept silence for a little space, With reverent caution, lest his lighter grief Might seem a wanton touch upon her pain. But time was urging him with visible flight, Changing the shadows: he must utter all.] JUAN That man was young when last I pressed his hand, — : In that dread moment when he left Bedmar, He has aged since : the week has made him gray. And yet I knew him, — knew the white-streaked hair Before I saw his face, as I should know The tear-dimmed writing of a friend. See now, — Does he not linger, — pause? — perhaps expect . . . [Juan plead timidly: Fedalma's eyes Flashed; and through all her frame there ran the shock Of some sharp-wounding joy, like his who hastes THE SPANISH GYPSY 283 And dreads to come too late, and comes in time To press a loved hand dying. She was mute And made no gesture : all her being paused In resolution, as some leonine wave That makes a moment's silence ere it leaps.] JUAN He came from Carthagena, in a boat Too slight for safety; yon small two-oared boat Below the rock ; the fisher-boy within Awaits his signal. But the pilgrim waits . . . FEDALMA Yes, I will go ! — Father, I owe him this, For loving me made all his misery. And we will look once more, — will say farewell As in a solemn rite to strengthen us For our eternal parting. Juan, stay Here in my place, to warn me were there need. And, Hinda, follow me! [All men who watched Lost her regretfully, then drew content From thought that she must quickly come again, And filled the time with striving to be near. She, down the steps, along the sandy brink To where he stood, walked firm; with quickened step The moment when each felt the other saw. He moved at sight of her: their glances met; It seemed they could no more remain aloof Than nearing waters hurrying into one. Yet their steps slackened and they paused apart, Pressed backward by the force of memories Which reigned supreme as death above desire. 284 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Two paces off they stood and silently Looked at each other. Was it well to speak? Could speech be clearer, stronger, tell them more Than that long gaze of their renouncing love? They passed from silence hardly knowing how; It seemed they heard each other's thought before.] DON SILVA I go to be absolved, to have my life Washed into fitness for an offering To injured Spain. But I have naught to give For that last injury to her I loved Better than I loved Spain. I am accurst Above all sinners, being made the curse Of her I sinned for. Pardon! Penitence! When they have done their utmost, still beyond Out of their reach stands Injury unchanged And changeless. I should see it still in heaven, — Out of my reach, forever in my sight: Wearing your grief, 'twould hide the smiling seraphs. I bring no puling prayer, Fedalma, — ask No balm of pardon that may soothe my soul For others' bleeding wounds : I am not come To say, " Forgive me: " you must not forgive, For you must see me ever as I am, — Your father's . . . FEDALMA Speak it not! Calamity Comes like a deluge and o'erfloods our crimes, Till sin is hidden in woe. You — I — we two, Grasping we knew not what, that seemed delight, Opened the sluices of that deep. THE SPANISH GYPSY 285 DON SILVA We two? — Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless. FEDALMA No! It shall not be that you did aught alone. For when we loved I willed to reign in you, And I was jealous even of the day If it could gladden you apart from me. And so, it must be that I shared each deed Our love was root of. DON SILVA Dear ! you share the woe, — Nay, the worst dart of vengeance fell on you. FEDALMA Vengeance! She does but sweep us with her skirts, — She takes large space, and lies a baleful light Revolving with long years, — sees children's chil- dren, Blights them in their prime. Oh, if two lovers leaned To breathe one air and spread a pestilence, They woujd but lie two livid victims dead Amid the city of the dying. We With our poor petty lives have strangled one That ages watch for vainly. DON SILVA Deep despair Fills all your tones as with slow agony. 286 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Speak words that narrow anguish to some shape: Tell me what dread is close before you? FED ALMA None. No dread, but clear assurance of the end. My father held within his mighty frame A people's life: great futures died with him Never to rise, until the time shall ripe Some other hero with the will to save The lost Zincali. DON SILVA Yet your people's shout — I heard it — sounded as the plenteous rush Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls With power that promised sway. FED ALMA Ah yes, that shout Came from full hearts : they meant obedience. But they are orphaned: their poor childish feet Are vagabond in spite of love, and stray Forgetful after little lures. For me, — I am but as the funeral urn that bears The ashes of a leader. DON SILVA O great God! What am I but a miserable brand Lit by mysterious wrath? I lie cast down A blackened branch upon the desolate ground Where once I kindled ruin. I shall drink No cup of purest water but will taste Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma. THE SPANISH GYPSY 287 FED ALMA Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees A light serene and strong on one sole path Which she will tread till death. . . . He trusted me, and I will keep his trust: My life shall be its temple. I will plant His sacred hope within the sanctuary And die its priestess, — though I die alone, A hoary woman on the altar step, Cold 'mid cold ashes. That is my chief good. The deepest hunger of a faithful heart Is faithfulness. Wish me naught else. And you, — You too will live. . . . DON SILVA I go to Rome, to seek The right to use my knightly sword again; The right to fill my place and live or die So that all Spaniards shall not curse my name. I sat one hour upon the barren rock And longed to kill myself; but then I said, I will not leave my name in infamy, I will not be perpetual rottenness Upon the Spaniard's air. If I must sink At last to hell, I will not take my stand Among the coward crew who could not bear The harm themselves had done, which others bore. My young life yet may fill some bloody breach, And I will take no pardon, not my own, Not God's, — no pardon idly on my knees ; But it shall come to me upon my feet And in the thick of action, and each deed That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting That drives me higher up the steep of honour 288 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT In deeds of duteous service to that Spain Who nourished me on her expectant breast, The heir of highest gifts. I will not fling My earthly being down for carrion To fill the air with loathing : I will be The living prey of some fierce noble death That leaps upon me while I move. Aloud I said, " I will redeem my name," and then, — I know not if aloud: I felt the words Drinking up all my senses, — " She still lives. I would not quit the dear familiar earth Where both of us behold the selfsame sun, Where there can be no strangeness 'twixt our thoughts So deep as their communion." Resolute I rose and walked. — Fedalma, think of me As one who will regain the only life Where he is other than apostate, — one Who seeks but to renew and keep the vows Of Spanish knight and noble. But the breach Outside those vows — the fatal second breach — Lies a dark gulf where I have naught to cast, Not even expiation, — poor pretence, Which changes naught but what survives the past. And raises not the dead. That deep dark gulf Divides us. FEDALMA Yes, forever. We must walk Apart unto the end. Our marriage rite Is our resolve that we will each be true To high allegiance, higher than our love, — Our dear young love, — its breath was happiness ! But it had grown upon a larger life Which tore its roots asunder. We rebelled, — The larger life subdued us. Yet we are wed ; THE SPANISH GYPSY 289 For we shall carry each the pressure deep Of the other's soul. I soon shall leave the shore. The winds to-night will bear me far away. My lord, farewell! [He did not say " Farewell." But neither knew that he was silent. She, For one long moment, moved not. They knew naught Save that they parted ; for their mutual gaze As with their soul's full speech forbade their hands To seek each other, — those oft-clasping hands Which had a memory of their own, and went Widowed of one dear touch forevermore. At last she turned and with swift movement passed, Beckoning to Hinda, who was bending low And lingered still to wash her shells, but soon Leaping and scampering followed, while her Queen Mounted the steps again and took her place, Which Juan rendered silently. And now The press upon the quay was thinned ; the ground Was cleared of cumbering heaps, the eager shouts Had sunk, and left a murmur more restrained By common purpose. All the men ashore Were gathering into ordered companies, And with less clamour filled the waiting boats, As if the speaking light commanded them To quiet speed : for now the farewell glow Was on the topmost heights, and where far ships Were southward tending, tranquil, slow, and white Upon the luminous meadow toward the verge. The quay was in still shadow, and the boats Went sombrely upon the sombre waves. Fedalma watched again ; but now her gaze VOL. XVII — 1O 290 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Takes in the eastward bay, where that small bark Which held the fisher-boy floats weightier With one more life, that rests upon the oar Watching with her. He would not go away Till she was gone ; he would not turn his face Away from her at parting : but the sea Should widen slowly 'twixt their seeking eyes. The time was coming. Nadar had approached. Was the Queen ready? Would she follow now Her father's body? For the largest boat Was waiting at the quay, the last strong band Of armed Zincali ranged themselves in lines To guard her passage and to follow her. ' Yes, I am ready; " and with action prompt They cast aside the Gypsy's wandering tomb, And fenced the space from curious Moors who pressed To see Chief Zarca's coffin as it lay. They raised it slowly, holding it aloft On shoulders proud to bear the heavy load. Bound on the coffin lay the chieftain's arms, His Gypsy garments and his coat of mail. Fedalma saw the burden lifted high, And then descending followed. All was still. The Moors aloof could hear the struggling steps Beneath the lowered burden at the boat, The struggling calls subdued, till safe released It lay within, the space around it filled By black-haired Gypsies. Then Fedalma stepped From off the shore and saw it flee away, — The land that bred her helping the resolve Which exiled her forever. It was night Before the ships weighed anchor and gave sail; Fresh Night emergent in her clearness, lit THE SPANISH GYPSY 291 By the large crescent moon, with Hesperus And those great stars that lead the eager host. Fedalma stood and watched the little bark Lying jet-black upon moon- whitened waves. Silva was standing too. He too divined A steadfast form that held him with its thought And eyes that sought him vanishing : he saw The waters widen slowly, till at last Straining he gazed and knew not if he gazed On aught but blackness overhung by stars.] THE LEGEND OF JUBAL WHEN Cain was driven from Jehovah's land He wandered eastward, seeking some far strand Ruled by kind gods who asked no offerings Save pure field-fruits, as aromatic things, To feed the subtler sense of frames divine That lived on fragrance for their food and wine : Wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and folly, And could be pitiful and melancholy. He never had a doubt that such gods were ; He looked within, and saw them mirrored there. Some think he came at last to Tartary, And some to Ind ; but, howsoe'er it be, His staff he planted where sweet waters ran, And in that home of Cain the Arts began. Man's life was spacious in the early world : It paused, like some slow ship with sail unfurled Waiting in seas by scarce a wavelet curled; Beheld the low star-paces of the skies, And grew from strength to strength through cen- turies ; Saw infant trees fill out their giant limbs, And heard a thousand times the sweet bird's mar- riage hymns. In Cain's young city none had heard of Death Save him, the founder; and it was his faith That here, away from harsh Jehovah's law, Man was immortal, since no halt or flaw THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 293 In Cain's own frame betrayed six hundred years, But dark as pines that autumn never sears His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame Rose like the orbed sun each morn the same, Lake-mirrored to his gaze; and that red brand, The scorching impress of Jehovah's hand, Was still clear-edged to his unwearied eye, Its secret firm in time-fraught memory. He said, " My happy offspring shall not know That the red life from out a man may flow When smitten by his brother." True, his race Bore each one stamped upon his new-born face A copy of the brand no whit less clear ; But every mother held that little copy dear. Thus generations in glad idlesse throve, Nor hunted prey, nor with each other strove ; For clearest springs were plenteous in the land, And gourds for cups; the ripe fruits sought the hand, Bending the laden boughs with fragrant gold ; And for their roofs and garments wealth untold Lay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves : They laboured gently, as a maid who weaves Her hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft And strokes across her palm the tresses soft, Then peeps to watch the poised butterfly, Or little burdened ants that homeward hie. Time was but leisure to their lingering thought, There was no need for haste to finish aught ; But sweet beginnings were repeated still Like infant babblings that no task fulfil; For love, that loved not change, constrained the simple will. Till, hurling stones in mere athletic joy, Strong Lamech struck and killed his fairest boy, 294 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And tried to wake him with the tenderest cries, And fetched and held before the glazed eyes The things they best had loved to look upon; But never glance or smile or sigh he won. The generations stood around those twain Helplessly gazing, till their father Cain Parted the press, and said, " He will not wake; This is the endless sleep, and we must make A bed deep down for him beneath the sod ; For know, my sons, there is a mighty God Angry with all man's race, but most with me. I fled from out His land in vain ! — 't is He Who came and slew the lad, for He has found This home of ours, and we shall all be bound By the harsh bands of His most cruel will, Which any moment may some dear one kill. Nay, though we live for countless moons, at last We and all ours shall die like summers past. This is Jehovah's will, and He is strong; I thought the way I travelled was too long For Him to follow me : my thought was vain ! He walks unseen, but leaves a track of pain, Pale Death His footprint is, and He will come again ! " And a new spirit from that hour came o'er The race of Cain : soft idlesse was no more, But even the sunshine had a heart of care, Smiling with hidden dread — a mother fair Who folding to her breast a dying child Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness mild. Death was now lord of Life, and at his word Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred, With measured wing now audibly arose Throbbing through all things to some unknown close. THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 295 Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn, And Work grew eager, and Device was born. It seemed the light was never loved before, Now each man said, ' 'T will go and come no more." No budding branch, no pebble from the brook, No form, no shadow but new dearness took From the one thought that life must have an end ; And the last parting now began to send Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss, Thrilling them into finer tenderness. Then Memory disclosed her face divine, That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves, And shows the presence that no sunlight craves, No space, no warmth, but moves among them all ; Gone and yet here, and coming at each call, With ready voice and eyes that understand, And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed Of various life and action-shaping need. But chief the sons of Lamech felt the stings Of new ambition, and the force that springs In passion beating on the shores of fate. They said, " There comes a night when all too late The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hand, The eager thought behind closed portals stand, And the last wishes to the mute lips press Buried ere death in silent helplessness. Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave, And while the arm is strong to strike and heave, Let soul and arm give shape that will abide And rule above our graves, and power divide With that great god of day, whose rays must bend As we shall make the moving shadows tend. 296 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Come, let us fashion acts that are to be, When we shall lie in darkness silently, As our young brother doth, whom yet we see Fallen and slain, but reigning in our will By that one image of him pale and still." For Lantech's sons were heroes of their race : Jabal, the eldest, bore upon his face The look of that calm river-god, the Nile, Mildly secure in power that needs not guile. But Tubal-Cain was restless as the fire That glows and spreads and leaps from high to higher Where'er is aught to seize or to subdue; Strong as a storm he lifted or o'erthrew, His urgent limbs like rounded granite grew, Such granite as the plunging torrent wears And roaring rolls around through countless years. But strength that still on movement must be fed, Inspiring thought of change, devices bred, And urged his mind through earth and air to rove For force that he could conquer if he strove, For lurking forms that might new tasks fulfil And yield unwilling to his stronger will. Such Tubal-Cain. But Jubal had a frame Fashioned to finer senses, which became A yearning for some hidden soul of things, Some outward touch complete on inner springs That vaguely moving bred a lonely pain, A want that did but stronger grow with gain Of all good else, as spirits might be sad For lack of speech to tell us they are glad. Now Jabal learned 'to tame the lowing kine, And from their udders drew the snow-white wine That stirs the innocent joy, and makes the stream Of elemental life with fulness teem ; THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 297 The star-browed calves he nursed with feeding hand, And sheltered them, till all the little band Stood mustered gazing at the sunset way Whence he would come with store at close of day. He soothed the silly sheep with friendly tone And reared their staggering lambs that, older grown, Followed his steps with sense-taught memory; Till he, their shepherd, could their leader be And guide them through the pastures as he would, With sway that grew from ministry of good. He spread his tents upon the grassy plain Which, eastward widening like the open main, Showed the first whiteness 'neath the morning star ; Near him his sister, deft, as women are, Plied her quick skill in sequence to his thought Till the hid treasures of the milk she caught Revealed like pollen 'mid the petals white, The golden pollen, virgin to the light. Even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent, He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent, And cherished all her little sharp-nosed young Till the small race with hope and terror clung About his footsteps, till each new-reared brood, Remoter from the memories of the wood, More glad discerned their common home with man. This was the work of Jabal: he began The pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be, Spread the sweet ties that bind the family O'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's caress, And shared his pains with patient helpfulness. But Tubal-Cain had caught and yoked the fire, Yoked it with stones that bent the flaming spire And made it roar in prisoned servitude Within the furnace, till with force subdued 298 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT It changed all forms he willed to work upon, Till hard from soft, and soft from hard, he won. The pliant clay he moulded as he would, And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it stood Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the mass That from his hold, dark, obstinate, would pass, He drew all glowing from the busy heat, All breathing as with life that he could beat With thundering hammer, making it obey His will creative, like the pale soft clay. Each day he wrought and better than he planned, Shape breeding shape beneath his restless hand. (The soul without still helps the soul within, And its deft magic ends what we begin. ) Nay, in his dreams his hammer he would wield And seem to see a myriad types revealed, Then spring with wondering triumphant cry, And, lest the inspiring vision should go by, Would rush to labour with that plastic zeal Which all the passion of our life can steal For force to work with. Each day saw the birth Of various forms which, flung upon the earth, Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour, But were as seeds instinct with hidden power. The axe, the club, the spiked wheel, the chain, Held silently the shrieks and moans of pain; And near them latent lay in share and spade, In the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved blade, Glad voices of the hearth and harvest-home, The social good, and all earth's joy to come. Thus to mixed ends wrought Tubal ; and they say, Some things he made have lasted to this day; As, thirty silver pieces that were found By Noah's children buried in the ground. He made them from mere hunger of device, Those small white disks ; but they became the price THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 299 The traitor Judas sold his Master for; And men still handling them in peace and war Catch foul disease, that comes as appetite, And lurks and clings as withering, damning blight. But Tubal-Cain wot not of treachery, Nor greedy lust, nor any ill to be, Save the one ill of sinking into naught, Banished from action and act-shaping thought. He was the sire of swift-transforming skill, Which arms for conquest man's ambitious will; And round him gladly, as his hammer rung, Gathered the elders and the growing young : These handled vaguely and those plied the tools, Till, happy chance begetting conscious rules, The home of Cain with industry was rife, And glimpses of a strong persistent life, Panting through generations as one breath, And filling with its soul the blank of death. Jubal, too, watched the hammer, till his eyes, No longer following its fall or rise, Seemed glad with something that they could not see, But only listened to — some melody, Wherein dumb longings inward speech had found, Won from the common store of struggling sound. Then, as the metal shapes more various grew, And, hurled upon each other, resonance drew, Each gave new tones, the revelations dim Of some external soul that spoke for him : The hollow vessel's clang, the clash, the boom, Like light that makes wide spiritual room And skyey spaces in the spaceless thought, To Jubal such enlarged passion brought That love, hope, rage, and all experience, Were fused in vaster being, fetching thence 300 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Concords and discords, cadences and cries That seemed from some world-shrouded soul to rise, Some rapture more intense, some mightier rage, Some living sea that burst the bounds of man's brief age. Then with such blissful trouble and glad care For growth within unborn as mothers bear, To the far woods he wandered, listening, And heard the birds their little stories sing In notes whose rise and fall seemed melted speech — Melted with tears, smiles, glances — that can reach More quickly through our frame's deep-winding night, And without thought raise thought's best fruit, delight. Pondering, he sought his home again and heard The fluctuant changes of the spoken word : The deep remonstrance and the argued want, Insistent first in close monotonous chant, Next leaping upward to defiant stand Or downward beating like the resolute hand; The mother's call, the children's answering cry, The laugh's light cataract tumbling from on high ; The suasive repetitions Jabal taught, That timid browsing cattle homeward brought; The clear- winged fugue of echoes vanishing; And through them all the hammer's rhythmic ring. Jubal sat lonely, all around was dim, Yet his face glowed with light revealed to him: For as the delicate stream of odour wakes The thought-wed sentience and some image makes From out the mingled fragments of the past, Finely compact in wholeness that will last, So streamed as from the body of each sound Subtler pulsations, swift as warmth, which found All prisoned germs and all their powers unbound, Till thought self-luminous flamed from memory, And in creative vision wandered free. Then Jubal, standing, rapturous arms upraised, And on the dark with eager eyes he gazed, As had some manifested god been there. It was his thought he saw : the presence fair Of unachieved achievement, the high task, The struggling unborn spirit that doth ask With irresistible cry for blood and breath, Till feeding its great life we sink in death. He said, " Were now those mighty tones and cries That from the giant soul of earth arise, Those groans of some great travail heard from far, Some power at wrestle with the things that are, Those sounds which vary with the varying form Of clay and metal, and in sightless swarm Fill the wide space with tremors : were these wed To human voices with such passion fed As does put glimmer in our common speech, But might flame out in tones whose changing reach, Surpassing meagre need, informs the sense With fuller union, finer difference - Were this great vision, now obscurely bright As morning hills that melt in new-poured light, Wrought into solid form and living sound, Moving with ordered throb and sure rebound, Then — Nay, I Jubal will that work begin ! The generations of our race shall win New life, that grows from out the heart of this, As spring from winter, or as lovers' bliss From out the dull unknown of un waked energies." 302 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Thus he resolved and in the soul-fed light Of coming ages waited through the night, Watching for that near dawn whose chiller ray Showed but the unchanged world of yesterday; Where all the order of his dream divine Lay like Olympian forms within the mine; Where fervour that could fill the earthly round With thronged joys of form-begotten sound Must shrink intense within the patient power That lonely labours through the niggard hour. Such patience have the heroes who begin, Sailing the first to lands which others win. Jubal must dare as great beginners dare, Strike form's first way in matter rude and bare, And, yearning vaguely toward the plenteous quire Of the world's harvest, make one poor small lyre. He made it, and from out its measured frame Drew the harmonic soul, whose answers came With guidance sweet and lessons of delight Teaching to ear and hand the blissful Right, Where strictest law is gladness to the sense And all desire bends toward obedience. Then Jubal poured his triumph in a song — The rapturous word that rapturous notes pro- long As radiance streams from smallest things that burn, Or thought of loving into love doth turn. And still his lyre gave companionship In sense-taught concert as of lip with lip. Alone amid the hills at first he tried His winged song; then with adoring pride And bridegroom's joy at leading forth his bride, He said, " This wonder which my soul hath found, This heart of music in the might of sound, THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 303 Shall forthwith be the share of all our race And like the morning gladden common space : The song shall spread and swell as rivers do, And I will teach our youth with skill to woo This living lyre, to know its secret will, Its fine division of the good and ill. So shall men call me sire of harmony, And where great Song is, there my life shall be." Thus glorying as a god beneficent, Forth from his solitary joy he went To bless mankind. It was at evening, When shadows lengthen from each westward thing, When imminence of change makes sense more fine And light seems holier in its grand decline. The fruit-trees wore their studded coronal, Earth and her children were at festival, Glowing as with one heart and one consent — Thought, love, trees, rocks, in sweet warm radiance blent. The tribe of Cain was resting on the ground, The various ages wreathed in one broad round. Here lay, while children peeped o'er his huge thighs, The sinewy man embrowned by centuries ; Here the broad-bosomed mother of the strong Looked, like Demeter, placid o'er the throng Of young lithe forms whose rest was movement too — Tricks, prattle, nods, and laughs that lightly flew, And swayings as of flower-beds where Love blew. For all had feasted well upon the flesh Of juicy fruits, on nuts, and honey fresh, And now their wine was health-bred merriment, Which through the generations circling went, 304 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Leaving none sad, for even father Cain Smiled as a Titan might, despising pain. Jabal sat climbed on by a playful ring Of children, lambs, and whelps, whose gambolling, With tiny hoofs, paws, hands, and dimpled feet, Made barks, bleats, laughs, in pretty hubbub meet. But Tubal's hammer rang from far away, Tubal alone would keep no holiday, His furnace must not slack for any feast, For of all hardship work he counted least; He scorned all rest but sleep, where every dream Made his repose more potent action seem. Yet with health's nectar some strange thirst was blent, The fateful growth, the unnamed discontent, The inward shaping toward some unborn power, Some deeper-breathing act, the being's flower. After all gestures, words, and speech of eyes, The soul had more to tell, and broke in sighs. Then from the east, with glory on his head Such as low-slanting beams on corn-waves spread, Came Jubal with his lyre : there 'mid the throng, Where the blank space was, poured a solemn song, Touching his lyre to full harmonic throb And measured pulse, with cadences that sob, Exult and cry, and search the inmost deep Where the dark sources of new passion sleep. Joy took the air, and took each breathing soul, Embracing them in one entranced whole, Yet thrilled each varying frame to various ends, As Spring new- waking through the creature sends Or rage or tenderness ; more plenteous life Here breeding dread, and there a fiercer strife. He who had lived through twice three centuries, Whose months monotonous, like trees on trees, THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 305 In hoary forests, stretched a backward maze, Dreamed himself dimly through the travelled days Till in clear light he paused, and felt the sun That warmed him when he was a little one ; Felt that true heaven, the recovered past, The dear small Known amid the Unknown vast, And in that heaven wept. But younger limbs Thrilled toward the future, that bright land which swims In western glory, isles and streams and bays, Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze. And in all these the rhythmic influence, Sweetly o'ercharging the delighted sense, Flowed out in movements, little waves that spread Enlarging, till in tidal union led The youths and maidens both alike long-tressed, By grace-inspiring melody possessed, Rose in slow dance, with beauteous floating swerve Of limbs and hair, and many a melting curve Of ringed feet swayed by each close-linked palm : Then Jubal poured more rapture in his psalm, The dance fired music, music fired the dance, The glow diffusive lit each countenance, Till all the gazing elders rose and stood With glad yet awful shock of that mysterious good. Even Tubal caught the sound, and wondering came, Urging his sooty bulk like smoke-wrapt flame Till he could see his brother with the lyre, The work for which he lent his furnace-fire And diligent hammer, witting naught of this — This power in metal shape which made strange bliss, Entering within him like a dream full-fraught With new creations finished in a thought. VOL. XVII — 20 306 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The sun had sunk, but music still was there, And when this ceased, still triumph filled the air : It seemed the stars were shining with delight And that no night was ever like this night. All clung with praise to Jubal: some besought That he would teach them his new skill: some caught, Swiftly as smiles are caught in looks that meet, The tone's melodic change and rhythmic beat: 'T was easy following where invention trod — All eyes can see when light flows out from God. And thus did Jubal to his race reveal Music their larger soul, where woe and weal Filling the resonant chords, the song, the dance, Moved with a wider-winged utterance. Now many a lyre was fashioned, many a song Raised echoes new, old echoes to prolong, Till things of Jubal's making were so rife, " Hearing myself," he said, " hems in my life, And I will get me to some far-off land, Where higher mountains under heaven stand And touch the blue at rising of the stars, Whose song they hear where no rough mingling mars The great clear voices. Such lands there must be, Where varying forms make varying symphony — Where other thunders roll amid the hills, Some mightier wind a mightier forest fills With other strains through other-shapen boughs ; Where bees and birds and beasts that hunt or browse Will teach me songs I know not. Listening there, My life shall grow like trees both tall and fair That rise and spread and bloom toward fuller fruit each year." THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 307 He took a raft, and travelled with the stream Southward for many a league, till he might deem He saw at last the pillars of the sky, Beholding mountains whose white majesty Rushed through him as new awe, and made new song That swept with fuller wave the chords along, Weighting his voice with deep religious chime, The iteration of slow chant sublime. It was the region long inhabited By all the race of Seth ; and Jubal said : " Here have I found my thirsty soul's desire, Eastward the hills touch heaven, and evening's fire Flames through deep waters ; I will take my rest, And feed anew from my great mother's breast, The sky-clasped Earth, whose voices nurture me As the flowers' sweetness doth the honey-bee." He lingered wandering for many an age, And, sowing music, made high heritage For generations far beyond the Flood — For the poor late-begotten human brood Born to life's weary brevity and perilous good. And ever as he travelled he would climb The farthest mountain, yet the heavenly chime, The mighty tolling of the far-off spheres Beating their pathway, never touched his ears. But wheresoe'er he rose the heavens rose. And the far-gazing mountain could disclose Naught but a wider earth ; until one height Showed him the ocean stretched in liquid light, And he could hear its multitudinous roar, Its plunge and hiss upon the pebbled shore : Then Jubal silent sat, and touched his lyre no more. 308 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT He thought, " The world is great, but I am weak, And where the sky bends is no solid peak To give me footing, but instead, this main — Myriads of maddened horses thundering o'er the plain. " New voices come to me where'er I roam, My heart too widens with its widening home : But song grows weaker, and the heart must break For lack of voice, or fingers that can wake The lyre's full answer; nay, its chords were all Too few to meet the growing spirit's call. The former songs seem little, yet no more Can soul, hand, voice, with interchanging lore Tell what the earth is saying unto me : The secret is too great, I hear confusedly. " No farther will I travel : once again My brethren I will see, and that fair plain Where I and Song were born. There fresh-voiced youth Will pour my strains with all the early truth Which now abides not in my voice and hands, But only in the soul, the will that stands Helpless to move. My tribe remembering Will cry ' 'T is he ! ' and run to greet me, wel- coming." The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew, And shook out clustered gold against the blue, While Jubal, guided by the steadfast spheres, Sought the dear home of those first eager years, When, with fresh vision fed, the fuller will Took living outward shape in pliant skill; For still he hoped to find the former things, And the warm gladness recognition brings. THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 309 His footsteps erred among the mazy woods And long illusive sameness of the floods, Winding and wandering. Through far regions strange With Gentile homes and faces, did he range, And left his music in their memory, And left at last, when naught besides would free His homeward steps from clinging hands and cries, The ancient lyre. And now in ignorant eyes No sign remained of Jubal, Lamech's son, That mortal frame wherein was first begun The immortal life of song. His withered brow Pressed over eyes that held no lightning now, His locks streamed whiteness on the hurrying air, The unresting soul had worn itself quite bare Of beauteous token, as the outworn might Of oaks slow dying, gaunt in summer's light. His full deep voice toward thinnest treble ran: He was the rune-writ story of a man. And so at last he neared the well-known land, Could see the hills in ancient order stand With friendly faces whose familiar gaze Looked through the sunshine of his childish days; Knew the deep-shadowed folds of hanging woods, And seemed to see the selfsame insect broods Whirling and quivering o'er the flowers — to hear The selfsame cuckoo making distance near. Yea, the dear Earth, with mother's constancy, Met and embraced him, and said, " Thou art he! This was thy cradle, here my breast was thine, Where feeding, thou didst all thy life entwine With my sky- wedded life in heritage divine." But wending ever through the watered plain, Firm not to rest save in the home of Cain, 310 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT He saw dread Change, with dubious face and cold That never kept a welcome for the old, Like some strange heir upon the hearth, arise Saying, " This home is mine." He thought his eyes Mocked all deep memories, as things new made, Usurping sense, make old things shrink and fade And seem ashamed to meet the staring day. His memory saw a small foot-trodden way, His eyes a broad far-stretching paven road Bordered with many a tomb and fair abode ; The little city that once nestled low As buzzing groups about some central glow, Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain and steep, Or monster huge in heavy-breathing sleep. His heart grew faint, and tremblingly he sank Close by the wayside on a weed-grown bank, Not far from where a new-raised temple stood, Sky-roofed, and fragrant with wrought cedar wood. The morning sun was high ; his rays fell hot On this hap-chosen, dusty, common spot, On the dry- withered grass and withered man : That wondrous frame where melody began Lay as a tomb defaced that no eye cared to scan. But while he sank far music reached his ear. He listened until wonder silenced fear And gladness wonder; for the broadening stream Of sound advancing was his early dream, Brought like fulfilment of forgotten prayer; As if his soul, breathed out upon the air, Had held the invisible seeds of harmony Quick with the various strains of life to be. He listened: the sweet mingled difference With charm alternate took the meeting sense; \ THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 311 Then bursting like some shield-broad lily red, Sudden and near the trumpet's notes outspread, And soon his eyes could see the metal flower, Shining upturned, out on the morning pour Its incense audible; could see a train From out the street slow-winding on the plain With lyres and cymbals, flutes and psalteries, While men, youths, maids, in concert sang to these With various throat, or in succession poured, Or in full volume mingled. But one word Ruled each recurrent rise and answering fall, As when the multitudes adoring call On some great name divine, their common soul, The common need, love, joy, that knits them in one whole. The word was "Jubal!" . . . " Jubal" filled the air And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there, Creator of the quire, the full-fraught strain That grateful rolled itself to him again. The aged man adust upon the bank - Whom no eye saw — at first with rapture drank The bliss of music, then, with swelling heart, Felt this was his own being's greater part, The universal joy once born in him. But when the train, with living face and limb And vocal breath, came nearer and more near, The longing grew that they should hold him dear ; Him, Lamech's son, whom all their fathers knew, The breathing Jubal — him, to whom their love was due. All was forgotten but the burning need To claim his fuller self, to claim the deed That lived away from him, and grew apart, While he as from a tomb, with lonely heart, 312 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Warmed by no meeting glance, no hand that pressed, Lay chill amid the life his life had blessed. What though his song should spread from man's small race Out through the myriad worlds that people space, And make the heavens one joy-diffusing quire? — Still 'mid that vast would throb the keen desire Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide, This twilight soon in darkness to subside, This little pulse of self that, having glowed Through thrice three centuries, and divinely strowed The light of music through the vague of sound, Ached with its smallness still in good that had no bound. For no eye saw him, while with loving pride Each voice with each in praise of Jubal vied. Must he in conscious trance, dumb, helpless lie While all that ardent kindred passed him by? His flesh cried out to live with living men And join that soul which to the inward ken Of all the hymning train was present there. Strong passion's daring sees not aught to dare: The frost-locked starkness of his frame low-bent, His voice's penury of tones long spent, He felt not ; all his being leaped in flame To meet his kindred as they onward came Slackening and wheeling toward the temple's face : He rushed before them to the glittering space, And, with a strength that was but strong desire, Cried, " I am Jubal, I ! ... I made the lyre ! " The tones amid a lake of silence fell Broken and strained, as if a feeble bell THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 313 Had tuneless pealed the triumph of a land To listening crowds in expectation spanned. Sudden came showers of laughter on that lake; They spread along the train from front to wake In one great storm of merriment, while he Shrank doubting whether he could Jubal be, And not a dream of Jubal, whose rich vein Of passionate music came with that dream-pain Wherein the sense slips off from each loved thing And all appearance is mere vanishing. But ere the laughter died from out the rear, Anger in front saw profanation near ; Jubal was but a name in each man's faith For glorious power untouched by that slow death Which creeps with creeping time ; this too, the spot, And this the day, it must be crime to blot, Even with scoffing at a madman's lie: Jubal was not a name to wed with mockery. Two rushed upon him: two, the most devout In honour of great Jubal, thrust him out, And beat him with their flutes. 'T was little need; He strove not, cried not, but with tottering speed, As if the scorn and howls were driving wind That urged his body, serving so the mind Which could but shrink and yearn, he sought the screen Of thorny thickets, and there fell unseen. The immortal name of Jubal filled the sky, While Jubal lonely laid him down to die. He said within his soul, " This is the end : O'er all the earth to where the heavens bend And hem men's travel, I have breathed my soul: I lie here now the remnant of that whole, The embers of a life, a lonely pain ; As far-off rivers to my thirst were vain, So of my mighty years naught comes to me again. 314 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT " Is the day sinking? Softest coolness springs From something round me: dewy shadowy wings Enclose me all around — no, not above — Is moonlight there? I see a face of love, Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong: Yea — art thou come again to me, great Song? " The face bent over him like silver night In long-remembered summers; that calm light Of days which shine in firmaments of thought, That past unchangeable, from change still wrought. And gentlest tones were with the vision blent : He knew not if that gaze the music sent, Or music that calm gaze : to hear, to see, Was but one undivided ecstasy: The raptured senses melted into one, And parting life a moment's freedom won From in and outer, as a little child Sits on a bank and sees blue heavens mild Down in the water, and forgets its limbs, And knoweth naught save the blue heaven that swims. " Jubal," the face said, " I am thy loved Past, The soul that makes thee one from first to last. I am the angel of thy life and death, Thy outbreathed being drawing its last breath. Am I not thine alone, a dear dead bride Who blest thy lot above all men's beside ? Thy bride whom thou wouldst never change, nor take Any bride living, for that dead one's sake? Was I not all thy yearning and delight, Thy chosen search, thy senses' beauteous Right, Which still had been the hunger of thy frame In central heaven, hadst thou been still the same? THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 315 Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any god — Whether with gleaming feet on earth he trod Or thundered through the skies — aught else for share Of mortal good, than in thy soul to bear The growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest Of the world's spring-tide in thy conscious breast? No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain, Nor loosed it any painless lot to gain Where music's voice was silent; for thy fate Was human music's self incorporate : Thy senses' keenness and thy passionate strife Were flesh of her flesh and her womb of life. And greatly hast thou lived, for not alone With hidden raptures were her secrets shown, Buried within thee, as the purple light Of gems may sleep in solitary night ; But thy expanding joy was still to give, And with the generous air in song to live, Feeding the wave of ever-widening bliss Where fellowship means equal perfectness. And on the mountains in thy wandering Thy feet were beautiful as blossomed spring, That turns the leafless wood to love's glad home, For with thy coming Melody was come. This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow, And that immeasurable life to know From which the fleshly self falls shrivelled, dead, A seed primeval that has forests bred. It is the glory of the heritage Thy life has left, that makes thy outcast age : Thy limbs shall lie dark, tombless on this sod, Because thou shinest in man's soul, a god, Who found and gave new passion and new joy That naught but Earth's destruction can destroy. 316 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Thy gifts to give was thine of men alone : 'T was but in giving that thou couldst atone For too much wealth amid their poverty." The words seemed melting into symphony, The wings upbore him, and the gazing song Was floating him the heavenly space along, Where mighty harmonies all gently fell Through veiling vastness, like the far-off bell, Till, ever onward through the choral blue, He heard more faintly and more faintly knew, Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave, The All-creating Presence for his grave. 1869 AGATHA COME with me to the mountain, not where rocks Soar harsh above the troops of hurrying pines, But where the earth spreads soft and rounded breasts To feed her children; where the generous hills Lift a green isle betwixt the sky and plain To keep some Old World things aloof from change. Here too 't is hill and hollow : new-born streams With sweet enforcement, joyously compelled Like laughing children, hurry down the steeps, And make a dimpled chase athwart the stones ; Pine woods are black upon the heights, the slopes Are green with pasture, and the bearded corn Fringes the blue above the sudden ridge : A little world whose round horizon cuts This isle of hills with heaven for a sea, Save in clear moments when south west ward gleams France by the Rhine, melting anon to haze. The monks of old chose here their still retreat, And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name, Sancta Maria, which the peasant's tongue, Speaking from out the parent's heart that turns All loved things into little things, has made Sanct Margen — Holy little Mary, dear As all the sweet home things she smiles upon, The children and the cows, the apple-trees, The cart, the plough, all named with that caress Which feigns them little, easy to be held, Familiar to the eyes and hand and heart. 318 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT What though a Queen? She puts her crown away And with her little Boy wears common clothes, Caring for common wants, remembering That day when good Saint Joseph left his work To marry her with humble trust sublime. The monks are gone, their shadows fall no more Tall-frocked and cowled athwart the evening fields At milking-time ; their silent corridors Are turned to homes of bare-armed, aproned men, Who toil for wife and children. But the bells, Pealing on high from two quaint convent towers, Still ring the Catholic signals, summoning To grave remembrance of the larger life That bears our own, like perishable fruit Upon its heaven- wide branches. At their sound The shepherd boy far off upon the hill, The workers with the saw and at the forge, The triple generation round the hearth — Grandames and mothers and the flute-voiced girls — Fall on their knees and send forth prayerful cries To the kind Mother with the little Boy, Who pleads for helpless men against the storm, Lightning and plagues and all terrific shapes Of power supreme. Within the prettiest hollow of these hills, Just as you enter it, upon the slope Stands a low cottage neighboured cheerily By running water, which, at farthest end Of the same hollow, turns a heavy mill, And feeds the pasture for the miller's cows, Blanchi and Nageli, Veilchen and the rest, Matrons with faces as Griselda mild, Coming at call. And on the farthest height A little tower looks out above the pines Where mounting you will find a sanctuary AGATHA 319 Open and still; without, the silent crowd Of heaven-planted, incense-mingling flowers; Within, the altar where the Mother sits 'Mid votive tablets hung from far-off years By peasants succoured in the peril of fire, Fever, or flood, who thought that Mary's love, Willing but not omnipotent, had stood Between their lives and that dread power which slew Their neighbour at their side. The chapel bell Will melt to gentlest music ere it reach That cottage on the slope, whose garden gate Has caught the rose-tree boughs and stands ajar; So does the door, to let the sunbeams in ; For in the slanting sunbeams angels come And visit Agatha who dwells within — Old Agatha, whose cousins Kate and Nell Are housed by her in Love and Duty's name, They being feeble, with small withered wits, And she believing that the higher gift Was given to be shared. So Agatha, Shares her one room, all neat on afternoons, As if some memory were sacred there And everything within the four low walls An honoured relic. One long summer's day An angel entered at the rose-hung gate, With skirts pale blue, a brow to quench the pearl, Hair soft and blonde as infants', plenteous As hers who made the wavy lengths once speak The grateful worship of a rescued soul. The angel paused before the open door To give good day. " Come in," said Agatha. I followed close, and watched and listened there. The angel was a lady, noble, young, Taught in all seemliness that fits a court, 320 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT All lore that shapes the mind to delicate use, Yet quiet, lowly, as a meek white dove That with its presence teaches gentleness. Men called her Countess Linda ; little girls In Freiburg town, orphans whom she caressed, Said Mamma Linda : yet her years were few, Her outward beauties all in budding time, Her virtues the aroma of the plant That dwells in all its being, root, stem, leaf, And waits not ripeness. " Sit," said Agatha. Her cousins were at work in neighbouring homes But yet she was not lonely ; all things round Seemed filled with noiseless yet responsive life, As of a child at breast that gently clings: Not sunlight only or the breathing flowers Or the swift shadows of the birds and bees, But all the household goods, which, polished fair By hands that cherished them for service done, Shone as with glad content. The wooden beams Dark and yet friendly, easy to be reached, Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign; The walls had little pictures hung a-row, Telling the stories of Saint Ursula, And Saint Elizabeth, the lowly queen; And on the bench that served for table too, Skirting the wall to save the narrow space, There lay the Catholic books, inherited From those old times when printing still was young With stout-limbed promise, like a sturdy boy. And in the farthest corner stood the bed Where o'er the pillow hung two pictures wreathed With fresh-plucked ivy : one the Virgin's death, And one her flowering tomb, while high above She smiling bends and lets her girdle down AGATHA 321 For ladder to the soul that cannot trust In life which outlasts burial. Agatha Sat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim, And spoke her welcome with mild dignity. She kept the company of kings and queens And mitred saints who sat below the feet Of Francis with the ragged frock and wounds; And Rank for her meant Duty, various, Yet equal in its worth, done worthily. Command was service; humblest service done By willing and discerning soul was glory. Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench, Close fronting the old knitter, and they talked With sweet antiphony of young and old. AGATHA You like our valley, lady? I am glad You thought it well to come again. But rest — The walk is long from Master Michael's inn. COUNTESS LINDA Yes, but no walk is prettier. AGATHA It is true: There lacks no blessing here, the waters all Have virtues like the garments of the Lord, And heal much sickness ; then, the crops and cows Flourish past speaking, and the garden flowers, Pink, blue, and purple, 't is a joy to see How they yield honey for the singing bees. I would the whole world were as good a home. COUNTESS LINDA And you are well off, Agatha? — your friends Left you a certain bread: is it not so? VOL. XVII — 21 322 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT AGATHA Not so at all, dear lady. I had naught, Was a poor orphan; but I came to tend Here in this house, an old afflicted pair, Who wore out slowly; and the last who died, Full thirty years ago, left me this roof And all the household stuff. It was great wealth, And so I had a home for Kate and Nell. COUNTESS LINDA But how, then, have you earned your daily bread These thirty years? AGATHA Oh, that is easy earning. We help the neighbours, and our bit and sup Is never failing: they have work for us In house and field, all sorts of odds and ends, Patching and mending, turning o'er the hay, Holding sick children — there is always work; And they are very good — the neighbours are : Weigh not our bits of work with weight and scale, But glad themselves with giving us good shares Of meat and drink; and in the big farmhouse When cloth comes home from weaving, the good wife Cuts me a piece — this very gown — and says : " Here, Agatha, you old maid, you have time To pray for Hans who is gone soldiering: The saints might help him, and they have much to do, 'T were well they were besought to think of him." She spoke half jesting, but I pray, I pray For poor young Hans. I take it much to heart AGATHA 323 That other people are worse off than I — I ease my soul with praying for them all. COUNTESS LINDA That is your way of singing, Agatha; Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs, And when they reach men's ears they make men's hearts Feel the more kindly. AGATHA Nay, I cannot sing: My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers Are foolish, feeble things; for Christ is good Whether I pray or not — the Virgin's heart Is kinder far than mine; and then I stop And feel I can do naught toward helping men, Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold, And I must pray again for all the world. 'T is good to me — I mean the neighbours are : To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved To go on pilgrimage the second time. COUNTESS LINDA And do you mean to go on pilgrimage With all your years to carry, Agatha? AGATHA The years are light; dear lady: 'tis my sins Are heavier than I would. And I shall go All the way to Einsiedeln with that load. I need to work it off. 324 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT COUNTESS LINDA What sort of sins, Dear Agatha? I think they must be small. AGATHA Nay, but they may be greater than I know; 'T is but dim light I see by. So I try All ways I know of to be cleansed and pure. I would not sink where evil spirits are. There 's perfect goodness somewhere : so I strive. COUNTESS LINDA You were the better for that pilgrimage You made before? The shrine is beautiful; And then you saw fresh country all the way. AGATHA Yes, that is true. And ever since that time The world seems greater, and the Holy Church More wonderful. The blessed pictures all, The heavenly images with books and wings, Are company to me through the day and night. The time! the time! It never seemed far back, Only to father's father and his kin That lived before him. But the time stretched out After that pilgrimage : I seemed to see Far back, and yet I knew time lay behind, As there are countries lying still behind The highest mountains, there in Switzerland. Oh, it is great to go on pilgrimage! COUNTESS LINDA Perhaps some neighbours will be pilgrims too, And you can start together in a band. AGATHA 325 AGATHA Not from these hills: people are busy here, The beasts want tendance. One who is not missed Can go and pray for others who must work. I owe it to all neighbours, young and old; For they are good past thinking — lads and girls Given to mischief, merry naughtiness, Quiet it, as the hedgehogs smooth their spines, For fear of hurting poor old Agatha. 'T is pretty : why, the cherubs in the sky Look young and merry, and the angels play On citherns, lutes, and all sweet instruments. I would have young things merry. See the Lord! A little baby playing with the birds; And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him. COUNTESS LINDA I think you are too happy, Agatha, To care for heaven. Earth contents you well. AGATHA Nay, nay, I shall be called, and I shall go Right willingly. I shall get helpless, blind, Be like an old stalk to be plucked away: The garden must be cleared for young spring plants. 'T is home beyond the grave, the most are there, All those we pray to, all the Church's lights — And poor old souls are welcome in their rags : One sees it by the pictures. Good Saint Ann, The Virgin's mother, she is very old, And had her troubles with her husband too. Poor Kate and Nell are younger far than I, But they will have this roof to cover them. 326 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT I shall go willingly; and willingness Makes the yoke easy and the burden light. COUNTESS LINDA When you go southward in your pilgrimage, Come to see me in Freiburg, Agatha. Where you have friends you should not go to inns. AGATHA Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady, And you will give me sweet hay for a bed. And in the morning I shall wake betimes And start when all the birds begin to sing. COUNTESS LINDA You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage, Such pretty clothes as all the women here Keep by them for their best: a velvet cap And collar golden-broidered? They look well On old and young alike. AGATHA Nay, I have none — Never had better clothes than these you see. Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them best When others wear them, and I somehow thought 'T was not worth while. I had so many things More than some neighbours, I was partly shy Of wearing better clothes than they, and now I am so old and custom is so strong 'T would hurt me sore to put on finery. COUNTESS LINDA Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha. Shake hands; good-bye. The sun is going down. And I must see the glory from the hill. AGATHA 327 I stayed among those hills ; and oft heard more Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name, As that of one half grandame and half saint, Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads And younger men all called her mother, aunt, Or granny, with their pet diminutives, And bade their lasses and their brides behave Right well to one who surely made a link 'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both: Not one but counted service done by her, Asking no pay save just her daily bread. At feasts and wedolings, when they passed in groups Along the vale, and the good country wine, Being vocal in them, made them quire along In quaintly mingled mirth and piety, They fain must jest and play some friendly trick On three old maids; but when the moment came Always they bated breath and made their sport Gentle as feather-stroke, that Agatha Might like the waking for the love it showed. Their song made happy music 'mid the hills, For nature tuned their race to harmony, And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs That grew from out their life, as crocuses From out the meadow's moistness. 'T was his song They oft sang, wending homeward from a feast — The song I give you. It brings in, you see, Their gentle jesting with the three old maids. Midnight by the chapel bell! Homeward, homeward all, farewell! I with you, and you with me, Miles are short with company. Heart of Mary, bless the way, Keep us all by night and day! 328 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Moon and stars at feast with night Now have drunk their fill of light. Home they hurry, making time Trot apace, like merry rhyme. Heart of Mary, mystic rose, Send us all a sweet repose! Swiftly through the wood down hill, Run till you can hear the mill. Toni's ghost is wandering now, Shaped just like a snow-white cow. Heart of Mary, morning star, Ward off danger, near or far! Toni's wagon with its load Fell and crushed him in the road 'Twixt these pine-trees. Never fear! Give a neighbour's ghost good cheer. Holy Babe, our God and Brother, Bind us fast to one another! Hark! the mill is at its work, Now we pass beyond the murk To the hollow, where the moon Makes her silvery afternoon. Good Saint Joseph, faithful spouse, Help us all to keep our vows! Here the three old maidens dwell, Agatha and Kate and Nell; See, the moon shines on the thatch, We will go and shake the latch. Heart of Mary, cup of joy, Give us mirth without alloy! AGATHA 329 Hush, 't is here, no noise, sing low, Rap with gentle knuckles — so! Like the little tapping birds, On the door; then sing good words. Meek Saint Anna, old and fair,, Hallow all the snow-white hair! Little maidens old, sweet dreams! Sleep one sleep till morning beams. Mothers ye, who help us all, Quick at hand, if ill befall. Holy Gabriel, lily-laden., Bless the aged mother-maiden! Forward, mount the broad hillside Swift as soldiers when they ride. See the two towers how they peep, Round-capped giants, o'er the steep. Heart of Mary, by thy sorrow, Keep us upright through the morrow! Now they rise quite suddenly Like a man from bended knee, Now Saint Margen is in sight. Here the roads branch off — good-night. Heart of Mary, by thy grace, Give us with the saints a place! ARMGART SCENE I A Salon lit with lamps and ornamented with green plants. An open piano, with many scattered sheets of music. Bronze busts of Beethoven and Gluck on pillars opposite each other. A small table spread with supper. To FRAULEIN WAL- PURGA, who advances with a slight lameness of gait from an adjoining room, enters GRAF DORNBERG at the opposite door in a travelling dress. GRAF Good-morning, Fraulein! WALPURGA What, so soon returned? I feared your mission kept you still at Prague. GRAF But now arrived! You see my travelling dress. I hurried from the panting, roaring steam Like any courier of embassy Who hides the fiends of war within his bag. WALPURGA You know that Armgart sings to-night? GRAF Has sung! 'T is close on half -past nine. The Orpheus ARMGART 331 Lasts not so long. Her spirits — were they high ? Was Leo confident? WALPURGA He only feared Some tameness at beginning. Let the hou^e Once ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe. GRAF And Armgart? WALPURGA She was stiller than her wont. But once, at some such trivial word of mine, As that the highest prize might yet be won By her who took the second — she was roused. " For me," she said, " I triumph or I fail. I never strove for any second prize." GRAF Poor human-hearted singing-bird! She bears Caesar's ambition in her delicate breast, And naught to still it with but quivering song! WALPURGA I had not for the world been there to-night: Unreasonable dread oft chills me more Than any reasonable hope can warm. GRAF You have a rare affection for your cousin; As tender as a sister's. Nay, I fear My love is little more than what I felt For happy stories when I was a child. She fills my life that would be empty else, And lifts my naught to value by her side. GRAF She is reason good enough, or seems to be, Why all were born whose being ministers To her completeness. Is it most her voice Subdues us? or her instinct exquisite, Informing each old strain with some new grace Which takes our sense like any natural good? Or most her spiritual energy That sweeps us in the current of her song? WALPURGA I know not. Losing either, we should lose That whole we call our Armgart. For herself She often wonders what her life had been Without that voice for channel to her soul. She says, it must have leaped through all her limbs — Made her a Maenad — made her snatch a brand And fire some forest, that her rage might mount In crashing roaring flames through half a land, Leaving her still and patient for a while. " Poor wretch! " she says, of any murderess — ' The world was cruel, and she could not sing: I carry my revenges in my throat; I love in singing, and am loved again.'* ARMGART 333 • GRAF Mere mood! I cannot yet believe it more. Too much ambition has unwomaned her; But only for a while. Her nature hides One half its treasures by its very wealth, Taxing the hours to show it. WALPURGA Hark! she comes. (Enter LEO with a wreath in his hand, hold- ing the door open for ARMGART, who wears a furred mantle and hood. She is followed by her maid, carrying an armful of bouquets.) LEO Place for the queen of song! GRAF (advancing toward ARMGART,, who throws of her hood and mantle, and shows a star of brilliants in her hair) A triumph, then. You will not be a niggard of your joy And chide the eagerness that came to share it. ARMGART 0 kind! you hastened your return for me. 1 would you had been there to hear me sing! Walpurga, kiss me: never tremble more Lest Armgart's wing should fail her. She has found This night the region where her rapture breathes — Pouring her passion on the air made live 334 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT With human heart-throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell them How I outsang your hope and made you cry Because Gluck could not hear me. That was folly ! He sang, not listened: every linked note Was his immortal pulse that stirred in mine, And all my gladness is but part of him. Give me the wreath. (She crowns the bust of Gluck.) LEO (sardonically) Ay, ay, but mark you this : It was not part of him — that trill you made In spite of me and reason! ABMGART You were wrong — Dear Leo, you were wrong: the house was held As if a storm were listening with delight And hushed its thunder. LEO Will you ask the house To teach you singing? Quit your Orpheus then, And sing in farces grown to operas, Where all the prurience of the full-fed mob Is tickled with melodic impudence: Jerk forth burlesque bravuras, square your arms Akimbo with a tavern wench's grace, And set the splendid compass of your voice To lyric jigs. Go to! I thought you meant To be an artist — lift your audience To see your vision, not trick forth a show To please the grossest taste of grossest numbers. ARMGART 335 ARMGART (taking up LEO'S hand and kissing it) Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent. I will do penance: sing a hundred trills Into a deep-dug grave, then burying them As one did Midas' secret, rid myself Of naughty exultation. Oh I trilled At nature's prompting, like the nightingales. Go scold them, dearest Leo. LEO I stop my ears. Nature in Gluck inspiring Orpheus, Has done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips? GRAF Truce to rebukes ! Tell us — who were not there — The double drama: how the expectant house Took the first notes. WALPURGA ( turning from her occupation of deck- ing the room with the flowers) Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart. Did you feel tremors? Leo, how did she look? Was there a cheer to greet her? LEO Not a sound. She walked like Orpheus in his solitude, And seemed to see naught but what no man saw. 'T was famous. Not the Schroeder-Devrient Had done it better. But your blessed public Had never any judgment in cold blood — Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise, Till rapture brings a reason. 336 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ABMGAET (scornfully) I knew that! The women whispered, " Not a pretty face! " The men, " Well, well, a goodly length of limb; She bears the chiton." — It were all the same Were I the Virgin Mother and my stage The opening heavens at the Judgment-day: Gossips would peep, jog elbows, rate the price Of such a woman in the social mart. What were the drama of the world to them, Unless they felt the hell-prong? LEO Peace, now, peace; I hate my phrases to be smothered o'er With sauce of paraphrase, my sober tune Made bass to rambling trebles, showering down In endless demi-semi-quavers. ARMGAUT ( taking a bon-bon from the table., uplift- ing it before putting it into her mouth, and turning away) Mum! GRAF Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame. WALPURGA You first, dear Leo — what you saw and heard ; Then Armgart — she must tell us what she felt. LEO Well! The first notes came clearly, firmly forth. And I was easy, for behind those rills ARMGART 337 I knew there was a fountain. I could see The house was breathing gently, heads were still; Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute, And human hearts were swelling. Armgart stood As if she had been new-created there And found her voice which found a melody. The minx ! Gluck had not written, nor I taught : Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus. Well, well, all through the scena I could feel The silence tremble now, now poise itself With added weight of feeling, till at last Delight o'er-toppled it. The final note Had happy drowning in the unloosed roar That surged and ebbed and ever surged again, Till expectation kept it pent awhile Ere Orpheus returned. Pfui! He was changed: My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyes That quivered like a bride's who fain would send Backward the rising tear. AEMGAET (advancing, but then turning away, as if to check her speech) I was a bride, As nuns are at their spousals. LEO Ay, my lady, That moment will not come again: applause May come and plenty ; but the first, first draught ! (Snaps his fingers.) Music has sounds for it — I know no words. I felt it once myself when they performed My overture to Sintram. Well ! ?t is strange, We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. VOL. xvil — 22 338 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ARMGART (turning quickly) Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls, And when full Being comes must call on pain To lend it liberal space. WALPURGA I hope the house Kept a reserve of plaudits: I am jealous Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good That should have seemed the better and the best. LEO No, 't was a revel where they had but quaffed Their opening cup. I thank the artist's star, His audience keeps not sober: once afire, They flame toward climax though his merit hold But fairly even. ARMGART (her hand on LEO'S arm) Now, now, confess the truth: I sang still better to the very end — All save the trill; I give that up to you, To bite and growl at. Why, you said yourself, Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were oped That you might hear heaven clearer. LEO (shaking his finger) I was raving. ARMGART I am not glad with that mean vanity Which knows no good beyond its appetite Full feasting upon praise! I am only glad, Being praised for what I know is worth the praise ; ARMGART 339 Glad of the proof that I myself have part In what I worship ! At the last applause — Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossed The handkerchiefs and many-coloured flowers, Falling like shattered rainbows all around — Think you I felt myself a prima donna? No, but a happy spiritual star Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose Of light in Paradise, whose only self Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused, Music, life, power — I moving in the midst With a sublime necessity of good. LEO (with a shrug) I thought it was a prima donna came Within the side-scenes; ay, and she was proud To find the bouquet from the royal box Enclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wear A star of brilliants, quite an earthly star, Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, own Ambition has five senses, and a self That gives it good warm lodging when it sinks Plump down from ecstasy. ARMGART Own it? why not? Am I a sage whose words must fall like seed Silently buried toward a far-off spring? I sing to living men and my effect Is like the summer's sun, that ripens corn Or now or never. If the world brings me gifts, Gold, incense, myrrh — 't will be the needful sign That I have stirred it as the high year stirs Before I sink to winter. 340 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT GRAF Ecstasies Are short — most happily! We should but lose Were Armgart borne too commonly and long Out of the self that charms us. Could I choose, She were less apt to soar beyond the reach Of woman's foibles, innocent vanities, Fondness for trifles like that pretty star Twinkling beside her cloud of ebon hair. ARMGART (taking out the gem and looking at it) This little star! I would it were the seed Of a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmer Were the sole speech men told their rapture with At Armgart's music. Shall I turn aside From splendours which flash out the glow I make, And live to make, in all the chosen breasts Of half a Continent? No, may it come, That splendour! May the day be near when men Think much to let my horses draw me home, And new lands welcome me upon their beach, Loving me for my fame. That is the truth Of what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie? Pretend to seek obscurity — to sing In hope of disregard? A vile pretence! And blasphemy besides. For what is fame But the benignant strength of One, transformed To joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits come As necessary breathing of such joy; And may they come to me! GRAF The auguries Point clearly that way. Is it no offence To wish the eagle's wing may find repose, ARMGART 341 As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest? Or has the taste of fame already turned The Woman to a Muse . . . LEO (going to the table) Who needs no supper. I am her priest, ready to eat her share Of good Walpurga's offerings. WALPURGA Armgart, come. Graf, will you come? GRAF Thanks, I play truant here, And must retrieve my self -indulged delay. But will the Muse receive a votary At any hour to-morrow? ARMGART Any hour After rehearsal, after twelve at noon. SCENE II The same Salon., morning. ARMGART seated, in her bonnet and walking-dress. The GRAF stand- ing near her against the piano. GRAF Armgart, to many minds the first success Is reason for desisting. I have known A man so versatile, he tried all arts, But when in each by turns he had achieved Just so much mastery as made men say, 342 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT " He could be king here if he would," he threw The lauded skill aside. He hates, said one, The level of achieved pre-eminence, He must be conquering still ; but others said — ARMGART The truth, I hope: he had a meagre soul, Holding no depth where love could root itself. " Could if he would? " True greatness ever wills — It lives in wholeness if it live at all, And all its strength is knit with constancy. GRAF He used to say himself he was too sane To give his life away for excellence Which yet must stand, an ivory statuette Wrought to perfection through long lonely years, Huddled in the mart of mediocrities. He said, the very finest doing wins The admiring only; but to leave undone, Promise and not fulfil, like buried youth, Wins all the envious, makes them sigh your name As that fair Absent, blameless Possible, Which could alone impassion them; and thus, Serene negation has free gift of all, Panting achievement struggles, is denied, Or wins to lose again. What say you, Armgart? Truth has rough flavours if we bite it through; I think this sarcasm came from out its core Of bitter irony. ARMGART It is the truth Mean souls select to feed upon. What then? Their meanness is a truth, which I will spurn. ARMGART 343 The praise I seek lives not in envious breath Using my name to blight another's deed. I sing for love of song and that renown Which is the spreading act, the world-wide share, Of good that I was born with. Had I failed — Well, that had been a truth most pitiable. I cannot bear to think what life would be With high hope shrunk to endurance, stunted aims Like broken lances ground to eating-knives, A self sunk down to look with level eyes At low achievement, doomed from day to day To distaste of its consciousness. But I — GRAF Have won, not lost, in your decisive throw. And I too glory in this issue; yet, The public verdict has no potency To sway my judgment of what Armgart is: My pure delight in her would be but sullied, If it o'erflowed with mixture of men's praise. And had she failed, I should have said, " The Pearl Remains a pearl for me, reflects the light With the same fitness that first charmed my gaze — Is worth as fine a setting now as then." ARMGART (rising) Oh, you are good! But why will you rehearse The talk of cynics, who with insect eyes Explore the secrets of the rubbish-heap? I hate your epigrams and pointed saws Whose narrow truth is but broad falsity. Confess your friend was shallow. 344 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT GRAF I confess Life is not rounded in an epigram, And saying aught, we leave a world unsaid. I quoted, merely to shape forth my thought That high success has terrors when achieved — Like preternatural spouses whose dire love Hangs perilous on slight observances: Whence it were possible that Armgart crowned Might turn and listen to a pleading voice, Though Armgart striving in the race was deaf. You said you dared not think what life had been Without the stamp of eminence ; have you thought How you will bear the poise of eminence With dread of sliding? Paint the future out As an unchecked and glorious career, 'T will grow more strenuous by the very love You bear to excellence, the very fate Of human powers, which tread at every step On possible verges. ARMGART I accept the peril. I choose to walk high with sublimer dread Rather than crawl in safety. And, besides, I am an artist as you are a noble: I ought to bear the burden of my rank. GRAF Such parallels, dear Armgart, are but snares To catch the mind with seeming argument — Small baits of likeness 'mid disparity. Men rise the higher as their task is high, The task being well achieved. A woman's rank Lies in the fulness of her womanhood: Therein alone she is royal. ARMGART 345 ARMGART Yes, I know The oft-taught Gospel : " Woman, thy desire Shall be that all superlatives on earth Belong to men, save the one highest kind — To be a mother. Thou shalt not desire To do aught best save pure subservience: Nature has willed it so ! " O blessed Nature Let her be arbitress; she gave me voice Such as she only gives a woman child, Best of its kind, gave me ambition too, That sense transcendent which can taste the joy Of swaying multitudes, of being adored For such achievement, needed excellence, As man's best art must wait for, or be dumb. Men did not say, when I had sung last night, " 'T was good, nay, wonderful, considering She is a woman " — and then turn to add, " Tenor or baritone had sung her songs Better, of course : she 's but a woman spoiled." I beg your pardon, Graf, you said it. GRAF No! How should I say it, Armgart? I who own The magic of your nature-given art As sweetest effluence of your womanhood Which, being to my choice the best, must find The best of utterance. But this I say: Your fervid youth beguiles you; you mistake A strain of lyric passion for a life Which in the spending is a chronicle With ugly pages. Trust me, Armgart, trust me; Ambition exquisite as yours which soars Towards something quintessential you call fame, 346 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Is not robust enough for this gross world Whose fame is dense with false and foolish breath. Ardour, a-twin with nice refining thought, Prepares a double pain. Pain had been saved, Nay, purer glory reached, had you been throned As woman only, holding all your art As attribute to that dear sovereignty — Concentring your power in home delights Which penetrate and purify the world. ABMGART What! leave the opera with my part ill-sung While I was warbling in a drawing-room? Sing in the chimney-corner to inspire My husband reading news? Let the world hear My music only in his morning speech Less stammering than most honourable men's? No! tell me that my song is poor, my art The piteous feat of weakness aping strength — That were fit proem to your argument. Till then, I am an artist by my birth — By the same warrant that I am a woman; Nay, in the added rarer gift I see Supreme vocation: if a conflict comes, Perish — no, not the woman, but the joys Which men make narrow by their narrowness. Oh, I am happy! The great masters write For women's voices, and great Music wants me! I need not crush myself within a mould Of theory called Nature: I have room To breathe and grow unstunted. GRAF Armgart, hear me. I meant not that our talk should hurry on ARMGART 347 To such collision. Foresight of the ills Thick shadowing your path, drew on my speech Beyond intention. True, I came to ask A great renunciation, but not this Toward which my words at first perversely strayed, As if in memory of their earlier suit, Forgetful Armgart, do you remember too? the suit Had but postponement, was not quite disdained — Was told to wait and learn — what it has learned — A more submissive speech. ARMGART (with some agitation) Then it forgot Its lesson cruelly. As I remember, 'T was not to speak save to the artist crowned, Nor speak to her of casting off her crown. GRAF Nor will it, Armgart. I come not to seek Any renunciation save the wife's, Which turns away from other possible love Future and worthier, to take his love Who asks the name of husband. He who sought Armgart obscure, and heard her answer, " Wait " — May come without suspicion now to seek Armgart applauded. ARMGART (turning toward him) Yes, without suspicion Of aught save what consists with faithfulness In all expressed intent. Forgive me, Graf — 348 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT I am ungrateful to no soul that loves me — To you most grateful. Yet the best intent Grasps but a living present which may grow Like any unfledged bird. You are a noble, And have a high career; just now you said 'T was higher far than aught a woman seeks Beyond mere womanhood. You claim to be More than a husband, but could not rejoice That I were more than wife. What follows, then? You choosing me with such persistency As is but stretched-out rashness, soon must find Our marriage asks concessions, asks resolve To share renunciation or demand it. Either we both renounce a mutual ease, As in a nation's need both man and wife Do public services, or one of us Must yield that something else for which each lives Besides the other. Men are reasoners: That premise of superior claims perforce Urges conclusion — " Armgart, it is you." GRAP But if I say I have considered this With strict prevision, counted all the cost Which that great good of loving you demands — Questioned by stores of patience, half resolved To live resigned without a bliss whose threat Touched you as well as me — and finally, With impetus of undivided will Returned to say, " You shall be free as now; Only accept the refuge, shelter, guard, My love will give your freedom " — then your words Are hard accusal. ARMGART 349 ARMGART Well, I accuse myself. My love would be accomplice of your will. GRAF Again — my will? ARMGART Oh, your unspoken will. Your silent tolerance would torture me, And on that rack I should deny the good I yet believed in. GRAF Then I am the man Whom you would love? ARMGART Whom I refuse to love! No; I will live alone and pour my pain With passion into music, where it turns To what is best within my better self. I will not take for husband one who deems The thing my soul acknowledges as good — The thing I hold worth striving, suffering for, To be a thing dispensed with easily Or else the idol of a mind infirm. GRAF Armgart, you are ungenerous; you strain My thought beyond its mark. Our difference Lies not so deep as love — as union Through a mysterious fitness that transcends Formal agreement. 350 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ARMGART It lies deep enough To chafe the union. If many a man Refrains, degraded, from the utmost right, Because the pleadings of his wife's small fears Are little serpents biting at his heel — How shall a woman keep her steadfastness Beneath a frost within her husband's eyes Where coldness scorches? Graf, it is your sorrow That you love Armgart. Nay, it is her sorrow That she may not love you. GRAF Woman, it seems, Has enviable power to love or not According to her will. ARMGART She has the will — I have — who am one woman — not to take Disloyal pledges that divide her will. The man who marries me must wed my Art — Honour and cherish it, not tolerate. GRAF The man is yet to come whose theory Will weigh as naught with you against his love. ARMGART Whose theory will plead beside his love. GRAF Himself a singer, then? who knows no life Out of the opera books, where tenor parts Are found to suit him? ARMGART 351 ARMGART You are bitter, Graf. Forgive me; seek the woman you deserve, All grace, all goodness, who has not yet found A meaning in her life, nor any end Beyond fulfilling yours. The type abounds. GRAF And happily, for the world. ARMGART Yes, happily. Let it excuse me that my kind is rare: Commonness is its own security. GRAF Anngart, I would with all my soul I knew The man so rare that he could make your life As woman sweet to you, as artist safe. ARMGART Oh, I can live unmated, but not live Without the bliss of singing to the world, And feeling all my world respond to me. GRAF May it be lasting. Then, we two must part? ARMGART I thank you from my heart for all. Farewell! 352 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT SCENE III A YEAR LATER The same salon. WALPURGA is standing looking toward the window with an air of uneasiness. DOCTOR GRAHN, DOCTOR Where is my patient, Fraulein? WALPURGA Fled! escaped! Gone to rehearsal. Is it dangerous ? DOCTOR No, no; her throat is cured. I only came To hear her try her voice. Had she yet sung? WALPURGA No; she had meant to wait for you. She said, " The Doctor has a right to my first song." Her gratitude was full of little plans, But all were swept away like gathered flowers By sudden storm. She saw this opera bill — It was a wasp to sting her: she turned pale, Snatched up her hat and muffler, said in haste, " I go to Leo — to rehearsal — none Shall sing Fidelio to-night but me ! " Then rushed down-stairs. DOCTOR (looking at his watch) And this, not long ago? ARMGART 353 WALPURGA Barely an hour. DOCTOE I will come again, Returning from Charlottenburg at one. WALPURGA Doctor, I feel a strange presentiment. Are you quite easy? DOCTOR She can take no harm. 'T was time for her to sing : her throat is well, It was a fierce attack, and dangerous; I had to use strong remedies, but — well! At one, dear Fraulein, we shall meet again. SCENE IV TWO HOURS LATER WALPURGA starts up, looking toward the door. ARMGART enters, followed by LEO. She throws herself on a chair which stands with its back toward the door, speechless, not seeming to see anything. WALPURGA casts a questioning terri- fied look at LEO. He shrugs his shoulders, and lifts up his hands behind ARMGART, who sits like a helpless image, while WALPURGA takes of her hat and mantle. WALPURGA Armgart, dear Armgart (kneeling and taking her hands), only speak to me, VOL. xvii — 23 354 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Your poor Walpurga. Oh, your hands are cold. Clasp mine, and warm them! I will kiss them warm. (ARMGART looks at her an instant, then draws away her hands, and, turning aside, buries her face against the back of the chair, WALPURGA rising and standing near. DOCTOR GEAHN enters.) DOCTOR News! stirring news to-day! wonders come thick. ARMGART (starting up at the first sound of his voice, and speaking vehemently) Yes, thick, thick, thick ! and you have murdered it ! Murdered my voice — poisoned the soul in me, And kept me living. You never told me that your cruel cures Were clogging films — a mouldy, dead'ning blight - A lava-mud to crust and bury me, Yet hold me living in a deep, deep tomb, Crying unheard forever! Oh, your cures Are devil's triumphs, you can rob, maim, slay, And keep a hell on the other side your cure Where you can see your victim quivering Between the teeth of torture — see a soul Made keen by loss — ail anguish with a good Once known and gone! (Turns and sinks back on her chair.) O misery, misery! You might have killed me, might have let me sleep After my happy day and wake — not here ! In some new unremembered world — not here, Where all is faded, flat — a feast broke off — ARMGART 355 Banners all meaningless — exulting words Dull, dull — a drum that lingers in the air Beating to melody which no man hears. DOCTOR (after a moment's silence) A sudden check has shaken you, poor child I All things seem livid, tottering to your sense, From inward tumult. Stricken by a threat You see your terrors only. Tell me, Leo : 'T is not such utter loss. (LEO, with a shrug, goes quietly out.) The freshest bloom Merely, has left the fruit ; the fruit itself .... ARMGAET Is ruined, withered, is a thing to hide Away from scorn or pity. Oh, you stand And look compassionate now, but when Death came With mercy in his hands, you hindered him. I did not choose to live and have your pity. You never told me, never gave me choice To die a singer, lightning-struck, unmaimed, Or live what you would make me with your cures — A self accursed with consciousness of change, A mind that lives in naught but members lopped, A power turned to pain — as meaningless As letters fallen asunder that once made A hymn of rapture. Oh, I had meaning once Like day and sweetest air. What am I now? The millionth woman in superfluous herds. Why should I be, do, think. 'T is thistle-seed, That grows and grows to feed the rubbish-heap. Leave me alone! 35b POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT DOCTOR Well, I will come again; Send for me when you will, though but to rate me. That is medicinal — a letting blood. ARMGABT Oh, there is one physician, only one, Who cures and never spoils. Him I shall send for; He comes readily. DOCTOR to WALPURGA One word, dear Fraulein. SCENE V ARMGART, WALPURGA ARMGART Walpurga, have you walked this morning? WALPURGA No. ARMGART Go, then, and walk; I wish to be alone. WALPURGA I will not leave you. ARMGART Will not at my wish? ARMGART 357 WALPURGA Will not, because you wish it. Say no more, But take this draught. ARMGART The Doctor gave it you? fit is an anodyne. Put it away. He cured me of my voice, and now he wants To cure me of my vision and resolve — Drug me to sleep that I may wake again Without a purpose, abject as the rest To bear the yoke of life. He shall not cheat me Of that fresh strength which anguish gives the soul, The inspiration of revolt, ere rage Slackens to faltering. Now I see the truth. WALPURGA (setting down the glass) Then you must see a future in your reach, With happiness enough to make a dower For two of modest claims. ARMGART Oh, you intone That chant of consolation wherewith ease Makes itself easier in the sight of pain. WALPURGA No; I would not console you, but rebuke. ARMGART That is more bearable. Forgive me, dear. Say what you will. But now I want to write. (She rises and moves toward a table.) 358 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT WALPURGA I say then, you are simply fevered, mad; You cry aloud at horrors that would vanish If you would change the light, throw into shade The loss you aggrandize, and let day fall On good remaining, nay, on good refused Which may be gain now. Did you not reject A woman's lot more brilliant, as some held, Than any singer's? It may still be yours. Graf Dornberg loved you well. ARMGART Not me, not me. He loved one well who was like me in all Save in a voice which made that All unlike As diamond is to charcoal. Oh, a man's love! Think you he loves a woman's inner self Aching with loss of loveliness ? — as mothers Cleave to the palpitating pain that dwells Within their misformed offspring? WALPURGA But the Graf Chose you as simple Armgart — had preferred That you should never seek for any fame But such as matrons have who rear great sons. And therefore you rejected him; but now — ARMGART Ay, now — now he would see me as I am, (She takes up a hand-mirror.) Russet and songless as a missel-thrush. An ordinary girl — a plain brown girl, Who, if some meaning flash from out her words, ARMGART 359 Shocks as a disproportioned thing — a Will That, like an arm astretch and broken off, Has naught to hurl — the torso of a soul. I sang him into love of me: my song Was consecration, lifted me apart From the crowd chiselled like me, sister forms, But empty of divineness. Nay, my charm Was half that I could win fame yet renounce, A wife with glory possible absorbed Into her husband's actual. WALPURGA For shame! Armgart, you slander him. What would you say If now he came to you and asked again That you would be his wife? ARMGART No, and thrice no ! It would be pitying constancy, not love, That brought him to me now. I will not be A pensioner in marriage. Sacraments Are not to feed the paupers of the world. If he were generous — I am generous too. ARMGART Proud, Armgart, but not generous. ARMGART Say no more. He will not know until — WALPURGA He knows already. 360 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ARMGART ( quickly ) Is he come back? WALPURGA Yes, and will soon be here. The Doctor had twice seen him and would go From hence again to see him. ARMGART Well, he knows. It is all one. WALPURGA What if he were outside? I hear a footstep in the ante-room. ARMGART (raising herself and assuming calmness) Why let him come, of course. I shall behave Like what I am, a common personage Who looks for nothing but civility. I shall not play the fallen heroine, Assume a tragic part and throw out cues For a beseeching lover. WALPURGA Some one raps. (Goes to the door.) A letter — from the Graf. ARMGART Then open it. (WALPURGA still offers it.) Nay, my head swims. Read it. I cannot see. (WALPURGA opens it, reads and pauses.} Read it. Have done! No matter what it is. ARMGART 361 WALPURGA (reads in a low, hesitating voice) " I am deeply moved — my heart is rent, to hear of your illness and its cruel result, just now communicated to me by Dr. Grahn. But surely it is possible that this result may not be permanent. For youth such as yours, Time may hold in store something more than resignation: who shall say that it does not hold renewal? I have not dared to ask admission to you in the hours of a recent shock, but I cannot depart on a long mission with- out tendering my sympathy and my farewell. I start this evening for the Caucasus, and thence I proceed to India, where I am intrusted by the Government with business which may be of long duration." (WALPURGA sits down dejectedly.) ARMGART (after a slight shudder, bitterly) . The Graf has much discretion. I am glad. He spares us both a pain, not seeing me. What I like least is that consoling hope — That empty cup, so neatly ciphered " Time," Handed me as a cordial for despair. (Slowly and dreamily) Time — what a word to fling as charity! Bland neutral words for slow, dull-beating pain — Days, months, and years ! — If I would wait for them. (She takes up her hat and puts it on, then wraps her mantle round her. WALPURGA leaves the room.) Why, this is but beginning. (WALPURGA re- enters.) Kiss me, dear. I am going now — alone — out — for a walk. Say you will never wound me any more 362 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT With such cajolery as nurses use To patients amorous of a crippled life. Flatter the blind : I see. WALPTJRGA Well, I was wrong. In haste to soothe, I snatched at flickers merely. Believe me, I will flatter you no more. AEMGART Bear witness, I am calm. I read my lot As soberly as if it were a tale Writ by a creeping feuilletonist and called " The Woman's Lot: a Tale of Everyday: " A middling woman's, to impress the world With high superfluousness ; her thoughts a crop Of chickweed errors or of pot-herb facts, Smiled at like some child's drawing on a slate. "Genteel?" " Oh yes, gives lessons ; not so good As any man's would be, but cheaper far." " Pretty? " " No; yet she makes a figure fit For good society. Poor thing, she sews Both late and early, turns and alters all To suit the changing mode. Some widower Might do well, marrying her; but in these days! . . . Well, she can somewhat eke her narrow gains By writing, just to furnish her with gloves And droschkies in the rain. They print her things Often for charity." — Oh, a dog's life ! A harnessed dog's, that draws a little cart Voted a nuisance! I am going now. WALPURGA Not now, the door is locked. ARMGART 363 ARMGART Give me the key 1 WALPURGA Locked on the outside. Gretchen has the key: She is gone on errands. ARMGART What, you dare to keep me Your prisoner? WALPURGA And have I not been yours? Your wish has been a bolt to keep me in. Perhaps that middling woman whom you paint With far-off scorn . . . ARMGART I paint what I must be! What is my soul to me without the voice That gave it freedom? — gave it one grand touch And made it nobly human? — Prisoned now, Prisoned in all the petty mimicries Called woman's knowledge, that will fit the world As doll-clothes fit a man. I can do naught Better than what a million women do — Must drudge among the crowd and feel my life Beating upon the world without response, Beating with passion through an insect's horn That moves a millet-seed laboriously. If I would do it! WALPURGA (coldly) And why should you not? ARMGART (turning quickly) Because Heaven made me royal — wrought me out With subtle finish toward pre-eminence, Made every channel of my soul converge To one high function, and then flung me down, That breaking I might turn to subtlest pain. An inborn passion gives a rebel's right: I would rebel and die in twenty worlds Sooner than bear the yoke of thwarted life, Each keenest sense turned into keen distaste, Hunger not satisfied but kept alive Breathing in languor half a century. All the world now is but a rack of threads To twist and dwarf me into pettiness And basely feigned content, the placid mask Of women's misery. WALPURGA (indignantly) Ay, such a mask As the few born like you to easy joy, Cradled in privilege, take for natural On all the lowly faces that must look Upward to you! What revelation now Shows you the mask or gives presentiment Of sadness hidden? You who every day These five years saw me limp to wait on you, And thought the order perfect which gave me, The girl without pretension to be aught, A splendid cousin for my happiness : To watch the night through when her brain was fired With too much gladness — listen, always listen To what she felt, who having power had right To feel exorbitantly, and submerge ARMGART 365 The souls around her with the poured-out flood Of what must be ere she was satisfied! That was feigned patience, was it? Why not love, Love nurtured even with that strength of self Which found no room save in another's life? Oh, such as I know joy by negatives, And all their deepest passion is a pang Till they accept their pauper's heritage, And meekly live from out the general store Of joy they were born stripped of. I accept — Nay, now would sooner choose it than the wealth Of natures you call royal, who can live In mere mock knowledge of their fellows' woe, Thinking their smiles may heal it. ARMGART (tremulously) Nay, Walpurga, I did not make a palace of my joy To shut the world's truth from me. All my good Was that I touched the world and made a part In the world's dower of beauty, strength, and bliss : It was the glimpse of consciousness divine Which pours out day and sees the day is good. Now I am fallen dark; I sit in gloom, Remembering bitterly. Yet you speak truth; I wearied you, it seems; took all your help As cushioned nobles use a weary serf, Not .looking at his face. WALPURGA Oh, I but stand As a small symbol for the mighty sum Of claims unpaid to needy myriads; I think you never set your loss beside 366 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT That mighty deficit. Is your work gone — The prouder queenly work that paid itself And yet was overpaid with men's applause ? Are you no longer chartered, privileged, But sunk to simple woman's penury, To ruthless Nature's chary average — Where is the rebel's right for you alone? Noble rebellion lifts a common load; But what is he who flings his own load off And leaves his fellows toiling? Rebel's right? Say rather, the deserter's. Oh, you smiled From your clear height on all the million lots Which yet you brand as abject. ARMGART I was blind With too much happiness: true vision comes Only, it seems, with sorrow. Were there one This moment near me, suffering what I feel, And needing me for comfort in her pang — Then it were worth the while to live; not else. WALPURGA One — near you — why, they throng ! you hardly stir But your act touches them. We touch afar. For did not swarthy slaves of yesterday Leap in their bondage at the Hebrews' flight, Which touched them through the thrice millennial dark? But you can find the sufferer you need With touch less subtle. ARMGART Who has need of me? ARMGART 367 WALPURGA Love finds the need it fills. But you are hard. ARMGART Is it not you, Walpurga, who are hard? You humoured all my wishes till to-day, When fate has blighted me. WALPURGA You would not hear The " chant of consolation: " words of hope Only imbittered you. Then hear the truth — A lame girl's truth, whom no one ever praised For being cheerful. " It is well," they said: " Were she cross-grained she could not be en- dured." A word of truth from her had startled you; But you — you claimed the universe ; naught less Than all existence working in sure tracks Toward your supremacy. The wheels might scathe A myriad destinies — nay, must perforce; But yours they must keep clear of; just for you The seething atoms through the firmament Must bear a human heart — which you had not ! For what is it to you that women, men, Plod, faint, are weary, and espouse despair Of aught but fellowship? Save that you spurn To be among them? Now, then, you are lame — Maimed, as you said, and levelled with the crowd: Call it new birth — birth from that monstrous Self Which, smiling down upon a race oppressed, Says, " All is good, for I am throned at ease." Dear Armgart — nay, you tremble — I am cruel. 368 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT ARMGART Oh no! hark! Some one knocks. Come in! — come in! (Enter LEO.) LEO See, Gretchen let me in. I could not rest Longer away from you. ARMGART Sit down, dear Leo. Walpurga, I would speak with him alone. (WALPURGA goes out.) LEO (hesitatingly) You mean to walk? ARMGART No, I shall stay within. (She takes off her hat and mantle, and sits down immediately. After a pause, speak- ing in a subdued tone to LEO.) How old are you? LEO Threescore and five. ARMGART That 's old. I never thought till now how you have lived. They hardly ever play your music? LEO (raising his eyebrows and throwing out his lip) No! Schubert too wrote for silence: half his work ARMGART 369 Lay like a frozen Rhine till summers came That warmed the grass above him. Even so! His music lives now with a mighty youth. ARMGART Do you think yours will live when you are dead? LEO Pfui! The time was, I drank that home-brewed wine And found it heady, while my blood was young: Now it scarce warms me. Tipple it as I may, I am sober still, and say: " My old friend Leo, Much grain is wasted in the world and rots; Why not thy handful? " ARMGART Strange! since I have known you Till now I never wondered how you lived. When I sang well — that was your jubilee. But you were old already. LEO Yes, child, yes: Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life; Age has but travelled from a far-off time Just to be ready for youth's service. Well! It was my chief delight to perfect you. ARMGART Good Leo! You have lived on little joys. But your delight in me is crushed forever. Your pains, where are they now? They shaped intent Which action frustrates; shaped an inward sense Which is but keen despair, the agony Of highest vision in the lowest pit. VOL. XVH — 24 370 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT LEO Nay, nay, I have a thought : keep to the stage, To drama without song; for you can act — Who knows how well, when all the soul is poured Into that sluice alone. AEMGART I know, and you: The second or third best in tragedies That cease to touch the fibre of the time. No ; song is gone, but nature's other gift, Self -judgment, is not gone. Song was my speech, And with its impulse only, action came : Song was the battle's onset, when cool purpose Glows into rage, becomes a warring god And moves the limbs with miracle. But now — Oh, I should stand hemmed in with thoughts and rules — Say, " This way passion acts," yet never feel The might of passion. How should I declaim? As monsters write with feet instead of hands. I will not feed on doing great tasks ill, Dull the world's sense with mediocrity, And live by trash that smothers excellence. One gift I had that ranked me with the best — The secret of my frame — and that is gone. For all life now I am a broken thing. But silence there! Good Leo, advise me now. I would take humble work and do it well — Teach music, singing — what I can — not here, But in some smaller town where I may bring The method you have taught me, pass your gift To others who can use it for delight. You think I can do that? (She pauses with a sob in her voice.) ARMGART 371 LEO Yes, yes, dear child! And it were well, perhaps, to change the place — Begin afresh as I did when I left Vienna with a heart half broken. ARMGART (roused by surprise) You? LEO Well, it is long ago. But I had lost - No matter! We must bury our dead joys And live above them with a living world. But whither, think you, you would like to go? ARMGART To Freiburg. LEO In the Breisgau? And why there? It is too small. ARMGART Walpurga was born there, And loves the place. She quitted it for me These five years past. Now I will take her there. Dear Leo, I will bury my dead joy. LEO Mothers do so, bereaved ; then learn to love Another's living child. ARMGART Oh, it is hard To take the little corpse, and lay it low. And say, " None misses it but me." 372 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT She sings . . . I mean Paulina sings Fidelio, And they will welcome her to-night. LEO Well, well, 'T is better that our griefs should not spread far. 1870 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING SIX hundred years ago, in Dante's time, Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme — When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story, Was like a garden tangled with the glory Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown, Climbing arid trailing, budding and full-blown, Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars, And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars, Crowd, every shady spot of teeming earth, Making invisible motion visible birth — Six hundred years ago, Palermo town Kept holiday. A deed of great renown, A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke Of hated Frenchmen, and from Calpe's rock To where Bosporus caught the earlier sun, 'T was told that Pedro, King of Aragon, Was welcomed master of all Sicily, A royal knight, supreme as kings should be In strength and gentleness that make high chivalry. Spain was the favourite home of knightly grace, Where generous men rode steeds of generous race; Both Spanish, yet half Arab, both inspired By mutual spirit, that each motion fired With beauteous response, like minstrelsy Afresh fulfilling fresh expectancy. So when Palermo made high festival, The joy of matrons and of maidens all 374 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Was the mock terror of the tournament, Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent, Took exaltation as from epic song, Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong. And in all eyes King Pedro was the king Of cavaliers : as in a full-gemmed ring The largest ruby, or as that bright star Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are. His the best jennet, and he sat it best; His weapon, whether tilting or in rest, Was worthiest watching, and his face once seen Gave to the promise of his royal mien Such rich fulfilment as the opened eyes Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise Of vernal day, whose joy o'er stream and meadow flies. But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed, With innocent faces budding all arow From balconies and windows high and low, Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow, The impregnation with supernal fire Of young ideal love — transformed desire, Whose passion is but worship of that Best Taught by the many-mingled creed of each young breast? 'T was gentle Lisa, of no noble line, Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine, Who from his merchant-city hither came To trade in drugs ; yet kept an honest fame, And had the virtue not to try and sell Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well, But loved them chiefly for his Lisa's sake, Whom with a father's care he sought to make HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 375 The bride of some true honourable man : Of Perdicone (so the rumour ran) , Whose birth was higher than his fortunes were; For still your trader likes a mixture fair Of blood that hurries to some higher strain Than reckoning money's loss and money's gain. And of such mixture good may surely come: Lords' scions so may learn to cast a sum, A trader's grandson bear a well-set head, And have less conscious manners, better bred; Nor, when he tries to be polite, be rude instead. 'T was Perdicone's friends made overtures To good Bernardo : so one dame assures Her neighbour dame who notices the youth Fixing his eyes on Lisa ; and in truth Eyes that could see her on this summer day Might find it hard to turn another way. She had a pensive beauty, yet not sad; Rather, like minor cadences that glad The hearts of little birds amid spring boughs; And oft the trumpet or the joust would rouse Pulses that gave her cheek a finer glow, Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought, Then quickened by him with the passionate thought, The soul that trembled in the lustrous night Of slow long eyes. Her body was so slight, It seemed she could have floated in the sky, And with the angelic choir made symphony; But in her cheek's rich tinge, and in the dark Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark Of kinship to her generous mother earth, The fervid land that gives the plumy palm-trees birth. 376 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT She saw not Perdicone; her young mind Dreamed not that any man had ever pined For such a little simple maid as she: She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be To love some hero noble, beauteous, great, Who would live stories worthy to narrate, Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy, The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy Who conquered everything beneath the sun, And somehow, some time, died at Babylon Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good And fair as that archangel who withstood The Evil One, the author of all wrong — That Evil One who made the French so strong; And now the flower of heroes must be he Who drove those tyrants from dear Sicily, So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly. Young Lisa saw this hero in the king, And as wood lilies that sweet odours bring Might dream the light that opes their modest eyne Was lily-odoured — and as rites divine, Round turf -laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stone, Draw sanctity from out the heart alone That loves and worships, so the miniature Perplexed of her soul's world, all virgin pure, Filled with heroic virtues that bright form, Raona's royalty, the finished norm Of horsemanship — the half of chivalry : For how could generous men avengers be, Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet? — These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet In one self world where the same right had sway, And good must grow as grew the blessed day. No more, great Love his essence had endued With Pedro's form, and entering subdued HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 377 The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense, Proud in its choice of proud obedience To hardship glorified by perfect reverence. Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest, And in her chamber through the hours of rest The darkness was alight for her with sheen Of arms, and plumed helm, and right between Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring 'Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird's bright wing 'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare: The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh, Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves, Clothing her life of life. Oh, she believes That she could be content if he but knew (Her poor small self could claim no other due) How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach Of winged passion, whereto winged speech Would be scorched remnants left by mountain flame. Though, had she such lame message, were it blame To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank She held in loving? Modest maidens shrank From telling love that fed on selfish hope; But love, as hopeless as the shattering song Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng Of mighty dead ones. . . . Nay, but she was weak — Knew only prayers and ballads — could not speak 378 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT With eloquence save what dumb creatures have, That with small cries and touches small boons crave. She watched all day that she might see him pass With knights and ladies; but she said, "Alas! Though he should see me, it were all as one He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone Of wall or balcony: some coloured spot His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not. I have no music-touch that could bring nigh My love to his soul's hearing. I shall die, And he will never know who Lisa was, — The trader's child, whose soaring spirit rose As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years dis- close. " For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen A-horseback, with blond hair, and tunic green Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need No change within to make me queenly there; For they the royal-hearted women are Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace For needy suffering lives in lowliest place, Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile, The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile. My love is such, it cannot choose but soar Up to the highest; yet forevermore, Though I were happy, throned beside the king, I should be tender to each little thing With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well With tender touch and with a low soft moan For company : my dumb love-pang is- lone, Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed stone." HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 379 So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days. Each night the August moon with changing phase Looked broader, harder on her unchanged pain; Each noon the heat lay heavier again On her despair; until her body frail Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale See narrowed on the height each summer morn; While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn, As if the soul within her all on fire Made of her being one swift funeral pyre. Father and mother saw with sad dismay The meaning of their riches melt away: For without Lisa what would sequins buy? What wish were left if Lisa were to die? Through her they cared for summers still to come, Else they would be as ghosts without a home In any flesh that could feel glad desire. They pay the best physicians, never tire Of seeking what will soothe her, promising That aught she longed for, though it were a thing Hard to be come at as the Indian snow, Or roses that on Alpine summits blow — It should be hers. She answers with low voice, She longs for death alone — death is her choice ; Death is the King who never did think scorn, But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born. Yet one day, as they bent above her bed And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel Some moist revival through their petals steal, And little flutterings of her lids and lips Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips A skyey shadow in the mind's poor pool, She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems full 380 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Upon her father, as in utterance dumb Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come. " What is it, Lisa? " " Father, I would see Minuccio, the great singer; bring him me." For always, night and day, her unstilled thought, Wandering all o'er its little world, had sought How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch, King Pedro's soul, that she who loved so much Dying, might have a place within his mind — A little grave which he would sometimes find And plant some flower on it — some thought, some memory kind, Till in her dream she saw Minuccio Touching his viola, and chanting low A strain that, falling on her brokenly, Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree, Each burdened with a word that was a scent — Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament; Then in her dreams she said, " He sings of me — Might be my messenger; ah, now I see The king is listening — " Then she awoke, And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke. She longed for music: that was natural; Physicians said it was medicinal; The humours might be schooled by true consent Of a fine tenor and fine instrument; In brief, good music, mixed with doctor's stuff, Apollo with Asklepios — enough! Minuccio, entreated, gladly came. (He was a singer of most gentle fame — A noble, kindly spirit, not elate That he was famous, but the song was great — Would sing as finely to this suffering child HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 381 As at the court where princes on him smiled.) Gently he entered and sat down by her, Asking what sort of strain she would prefer — The voice alone, or voice with viol wed; Then, when she chose the last, he preluded With magic hand, that summoned from the strings Aerial spirits, rare yet vibrant wings That fanned the pulses of his listener, And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir. Her cheek already showed a slow faint blush, But soon the voice, in pure full liquid rush, Made all the passion, that till now she felt, Seem but cool waters that in warmer melt. Finished the song, she prayed to be alone With kind Minuccio; for her faith had grown To trust him as if missioned like a priest With some high grace, that when his singing ceased Still made him wiser, more magnanimous Than common men who had no genius. So laying her small hand within his palm, She told him how that secret glorious harm Of loftiest loving had befallen her; That death, her only hope, most bitter were, If when she died her love must perish too, As songs unsung and thoughts unspoken do, Which else might live within another breast. She said, " Minuccio, the grave were rest, If I were sure, that lying cold and lone, My love, my best of life, had safely flown And nestled in the bosom of the king ; See, 'tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wing. But you will carry it for me secretly, And bear it to the king, then come to me 382 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT And tell me it is safe, and I shall go Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know." Then she wept silently, but each large tear Made pleading music to the inward ear Of good Minuccio. " Lisa, trust in me," He said, and kissed her fingers loyally; "It is sweet law to me to do your will, And ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil, I hope to bring you news of such rare skill As amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms still." He needed not to pause and first devise How he should tell the king ; for in nowise Were such love-message worthily bested Save in fine verse by music rendered. He sought a poet-friend, a Siennese, And " Mico, mine," he said, " full oft to please Thy whim of sadness I have sung thee strains To make thee weep in verse: now pay my pains, And write me a canzon divinely sad, Sinlessly passionate and meekly mad With young despair, speaking a maiden's heart Of fifteen summers, who would fain depart From ripening life's new-urgent mystery — Love-choice of one too high her love to be — But cannot yield her breath till she has poured Her strength away in this hot-bleeding word Telling the secret of her soul to her soul's lord." Said Mico, " Nay, that thought is poesy, I need but listen as it sings to me. Come thou again to-morrow." The third day, When linked notes had perfected the lay, HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 383 Minuccio had his summons to the court To make, as he was wont, the moments short Of ceremonious dinner to the king. This was the time when he had meant to bring Melodious message of young Lisa's love: He waited till the air had ceased to move To ringing silver, till Falernian wine Made quickened sense with quietude combine, And then with passionate descant made each ear incline. Love, thou didst see me, light as morning's breath, Roaming a garden in a joyous error. Laughing at chases vain, a happy child, Till of thy countenance the alluring terror In majesty from out the blossoms smiled, From out their life seeming a beauteous Death. O Love, who so didst choose me for thine own, Taking this little isle to thy great sway, See now, it is the honour of thy throne That what thou gavest perish not away, Nor leave some sweet remembrance to atone By life that will be for the brief life gone: Hear, ere the shroud o'er these frail limbs be thrown Since every king is vassal unto thee, My heart's lord needs must listen loyally — Oh tell him I am waiting for my Death! Tell him, for that he hath such royal power 'T were hard for him to think how small a thing, How slight a sign, would make a wealthy dower For one like me, the bride of that pale king Whose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour. 384 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Go to my lord, and to his memory bring That happy birthday of my sorrowing When his large glance made meaner gazers glad, Entering the bannered lists: Jt was then I had The wound that laid me in the arms of Death. Tell him, O Love,, I am a lowly maid. No more than any little knot of thyme That he with careless foot may often tread; Yet lowest fragrance oft will mount sublime And cleave to things most high and hallowed, As doth the fragrance of my life's springtime, My lowly love, that soaring seeks to climb Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss, More blissful than if mine, in being his: So shall I live in him and rest in Death. The strain was new. It seemed a pleading cry, And yet a rounded perfect melody, Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyes Of little child at little miseries. Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose, Like rising light that broad and broader grows, It filled the hall, and so possessed the air That not one breathing soul was present there, Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering In music's grasp, and forced to hear her sing. But most such sweet compulsion took the mood Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would). Whether the words which that strange meaning bore Were but the poet's feigning or aught more, Was bounden question, since their aim must be At some imagined or true royalty. He called Minuccio and bade him tell HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 385 What poet of the day had writ so well ; For though they came behind all former rhymes, The verses were not bad for these poor times. " Monsignor, they are only three days old," Minuccio said; " but it must not be told How this song grew, save to your royal ear." Eager, the king withdrew where none was near, And gave close audience to Minuccio, Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know. The king had features pliant to confess The presence of a manly tenderness — Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one, In fine harmonic exaltation — The spirit of religious chivalry. He listened, and Minuccio could see The tender, generous admiration spread O'er all his face, and glorify his head With royalty that would have kept its rank Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank. He answered without pause, "So sweet a maid, In nature's own insignia arrayed, Though she were come of unmixed trading blood That sold and bartered ever since the Flood, Would have the self-contained and single worth Of radiant jewels born in darksome earth. Raona were a shame to Sicily, Letting such love and tears unhonoured be: Hasten, Minuccio, tell her that the king To-day will surely visit her when vespers ring." Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word, And told at full, while none but Lisa heard, How each thing had befallen, sang the song, And like a patient nurse who would prolong All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone, Each look^ with which the mighty Aragon VOL. xvii — 25 Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned To that dear place he held in Lisa's mind. She listened till the draughts of pure content Through all her limbs like some new being went — Life, not recovered, but untried before, From out the growing world's unmeasured store Of fuller, better, more divinely mixed. 'T was glad reverse : she had so firmly fixed To die, already seemed to fall a veil Shrouding the inner glow from light of senses pale. Her parents wondering see her half arise — Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes Brimful with clearness, not of 'scaping tears, But of some light ethereal that enspheres Their orbs with calm, some vision newly learnt Where strangest fires erewhile had blindly burnt. She asked to have her soft white robe and band And coral ornaments, and with her hand She gave her locks' dark length a backward fall, Then looked intently in a mirror small, And feared her face might perhaps displease the king; " In truth," she said, " I am a tiny thing; I was too bold to tell what could such visit bring." Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thought That virgin passion, was more deeply wrought To chivalrous pity; and at vesper bell, With careless mien which hid his purpose well, Went forth on horseback, and as if by chance Passing Bernardo's house, he paused to glance At the fine garden of this wealthy man, This Tuscan trader turned Palermitan : But, presently dismounting, chose to walk Amid the trellises, in gracious talk HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 38T With the same trader, deigning even to ask If he had yet fulfilled the father's task Of marrying that daughter whose young charms Himself, betwixt the passages of arms, Noted admiringly. " Monsignor, no, She is not married; that were little woe, Since she has counted barely fifteen years; But all such hopes of late have turned to fears ; She droops and fades; though for a space quite brief — Scarce three hours past — she finds some strange relief." The king avised : " 'T were dole to all of us, The world should lose a maid so beauteous; Let me now see her; since I am her liege lord, Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong word." In such half -serious playfulness, he wends, With Lisa's father and two chosen friends, Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits Watching the open door, that now admits A presence as much better than her dreams, As happiness than any longing seems. The king advanced, and, with a reverent kiss Upon her hand, said, " Lady, what is this? You, whose sweet youth should others' solace be, Pierce all our hearts, languishing piteously. We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered, Nor be too reckless of that life, endeared To us who know your passing worthiness, And count your blooming life as part of our life's bliss." Those words, that touch upon her hand from him Whom her soul worshipped, as far seraphim 388 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Worship the distant glory, brought some shame Quivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frame With such deep joy she seemed in paradise, In wondering gladness, and in dumb surprise That bliss could be so blissful : then she spoke — • " Signor, I was too weak to bear the yoke, The golden yoke of thoughts too great for me; That was the ground of my infirmity. But now, I pray your grace to have belief .That I shall soon be well, nor any more cause grief." The king alone perceived the covert sense Of all her words, which made one evidence With her pure voice and candid loveliness, That he had lost much honour, honouring less That message of her passionate distress. He stayed beside her for a little while With gentle looks and speech, until a smile As placid as a ray of early morn On opening flower-cups o'er her lips was borne. When he had left her, and the tidings spread Through all the town how he had visited The Tuscan trader's daughter, who was sick, Men said, it was a royal deed and catholic. And Lisa? she no longer wished for death; But as a poet, who sweet verses saith Within his soul, and joys in music there, Nor seeks another heaven, nor can bear Disturbing pleasures, so was she content, Breathing the life of grateful sentiment. She thought no maid betrothed could be more blest ; For treasure must be valued by the test Of highest excellence and rarity, HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 389 And her dear joy was best as best could be; There seemed no other crown to her delight Now the high loved one saw her love aright. Thus her soul thriving on that exquisite mood, Spread like the May-time all its beauteous good O'er the soft bloom of neck, and arms, and cheek, And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak, Until she rose and walked, and, like a bird With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys heard. The king, when he the happy change had seen, Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen, With Lisa's innocent secret, and conferred How they should jointly, by their deed and word, Honour this maiden's love, which, like the prayer Of loyal hermits, never thought to share In what it gave. The queen had that chief grace Of womanhood, a heart that can embrace All goodness in another woman's form; And that same day, ere the sun lay too warm On southern terraces, a messenger Informed Bernardo that the royal pair Would straightway visit him and celebrate Their gladness at his daughter's happier state, Which they were fain to see. Soon came the king On horseback, with his barons, heralding The advent of the queen in courtly state ; And all, descending at the garden gate, Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade, Through the pleached alleys, till they, pausing, made A lake of splendour 'mid the aloes gray — When, meekly facing all their proud array, The white-robed Lisa with her parents stood, As some white dove before the gorgeous brood 390 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Of dapple-breasted birds born by the Colchian flood. The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech, Encourage her, and thus their courtiers teach How this fair morning they may courtliest be By making Lisa pass it happily. And soon the ladies and the barons all Draw her by turns, as at a festival Made for her sake, to easy, gay discourse, And compliment with looks and smiles enforce; A joyous hum is heard the gardens round; Soon there is Spanish dancing and the sound Of minstrel's song, and autumn fruits are pluckt; Till mindfully the king and queen conduct Lisa apart to where a trellised shade Made pleasant resting. Then King Pedro said — " Excellent maiden, that rich gift of love Your heart hath made us, hath a worth above All royal treasures, nor is fitly met Save when the grateful memory of deep debt Lies still behind the outward honours done: And as a sign that no oblivion Shall overflood that faithful memory, We while we live your cavalier will be, Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight, Whether for struggle dire or brief delight Of warlike feigning, but we first will take The colours you ordain, and for your sake Charge the more bravely where your emblem is; Nor will we ever claim an added bliss To our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss. But there still rests the outward honour meet To mark your worthiness, and we entreat That you will turn your ear to proffered vows Of one who loves you, and would be your spouse. HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 391 We must not wrong yourself and Sicily By letting all your blooming years pass by Unmated : you will give the world its due From beauteous maiden and become a matron true." Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment At her ambitious love's complete content, Which left no further good for her to seek Than love's obedience, said with accent meek — " Monsignor, I know well that were it known To all the world how high my love had flown, There would be few who would not deem me mad, Or say my mind the falsest image had Of my condition and your lofty place. But heaven has seen that for no moment's space Have I forgotten you to be the king, Or me myself to be a lowly thing — A little lark, enamoured of the sky, That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die. But, as you better know than I, the heart In choosing chooseth not its own desert, But that great merit which attracteth it; 'T is law, I struggled, but I must submit, And having seen a worth all worth above, I loved you, love you, and shall always love; But that doth mean, my will is ever yours, Not only when your will my good insures, But if it wrought me what the world calls harm — Fire, wounds, would wear from your dear will a charm. That you will be my knight is full content, And for that kiss — I pray, first for the queen's consent." 392 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Her answer, given with such firm gentleness, Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no less Of Lisa's merit than the king had held. And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled, There was betrothal made that very morn 'Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born, And Lisa, whom he loved ; she loving well The lot that from obedience befell. The queen a rare betrothal ring on each Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech. And that no joy might lack, the king, who knew The youth was poor, gave him rich Ceffalu And Cataletta, large and fruitful lands — Adding much promise when he joined their hands. At last he said to Lisa, with an air Gallant yet noble: " Now we claim our share From your sweet love, ?, share which is not small : For in the sacrament one crumb is all." Then taking her small face his hands between, He kissed her on the brow :vith kiss serene, Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had seen. Sicilians witnessed that King Pedro kept His royal promise : Perdicone stept To many honours honourably won, Living with Lisa in true union. Throughout his life the king still took delight To call himself fair Lisa's faithful krnght; And never wore in field or tournament A scarf or emblem save by Lisa sent., Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land: They joyed that one so worthy to command, So chivalrous and gentle, had become The king of Sicily, and filled the room Of Frenchmen, who abused the Church's trust, Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust, HOW LISA LOVED THE KING 898 Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger's thrust. L'ENVOI Reader, this story pleased me long ago In the bright pages of Boccaccio, And where the author of a good we know, Let us not fail to pay the grateful thanks we owe. 1869 A MINOR PROPHET I HAVE a friend, a vegetarian seer, By name Elias Baptist Butterworth, A harmless, bland, disinterested man, Whose ancestors in Cromwell's day believed The Second Advent certain in five years, But when King Charles the Second came instead, Revised their date and sought another world: I mean '- — not heaven but — America. A fervid stock, whose generous hope embraced The fortunes of mankind, not stopping short At rise of leather, or the fall of gold, Nor listening to the voices of the time As housewives listen to a cackling hen, With wonder whether she has laid her egg On their own nest-egg. Still they did insist Somewhat too wearisomely on the joys Of their Millennium, when coats and hats Would all be of one pattern, books and songs All fit for Sundays, and the casual talk As good as sermons preached extempore. And in Elias the ancestral zeal Breathes strong as ever, only modified By Transatlantic air and modern thought. You could not pass him in the street and fail To note his shoulders' long declivity, Beard to the waist, swan-neck, and large pale eyes ; Or, when he lifts his hat, to mark his hair Brushed back to show his great capacity — A full grain's length at the angle of the brow Proving him witty, while the shallower men A MINOR PROPHET 895 Only seem witty in their repartees. Not that he 's vain, but that his doctrine needs The testimony of his frontal lobe. On all points he adopts the latest views ; Takes for the key of universal Mind The " levitation " of stout gentlemen; Believes the Rappings are not spirits' work, But the Thought-atmosphere's, a stream of brains In correlated force of raps, as proved By motion, heat, and science generally; The spectrum, for example, which has shown The selfsame metals in the sun as here ; So the Thought-atmosphere is everywhere: High truths that glimmered under other names To ancient sages, whence good scholarship Applied to Eleusinian mysteries — The Vedas — Tripitaka — Vendidad — Might furnish weaker proof for weaker minds That Thought was rapping in the hoary past, And might have edified the Greeks by raps At the greater Dionysia, if their ears Had not been filled with Sophoclean verse. And when all Earth is vegetarian — When, lacking butchers, quadrupeds die out, And less Thought-atmosphere is reabsorbed By nerves of insects parasitical, Those higher truths, seized now by higher minds But not expressed (the insects hindering), Will either flash out into eloquence, Or better still, be comprehensible By rappings simply, without need of roots. 'T is on this theme — the vegetarian world — That good Elias willingly expands: He loves to tell in mildly nasal tones And vowels stretched to suit the widest views, 896 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The future fortunes of our infant Earth — When it will be too full of human kind To have the room for wilder animals. Saith he, Sahara will be populous With families of gentlemen retired From commerce in more Central Africa, Who order coolness as we order coal, And have a lobe anterior strong enough To think away the sand-storms. Science thus Will leave no spot on this terraqueous globe Unfit to be inhabited by man, The chief of animals : all meaner brutes Will have been smoked and elbowed out of life. No lions then shall lap Caffrarian pools, Or shake the Atlas with their midnight roar: Even the slow, slime-loving crocodile, The last of animals to take a hint, Will then retire forever from a scene Where public feeling strongly sets against him. Fishes may lead carnivorous lives obscure, But must not dream of culinary rank Or being dished in good society. Imagination in that distant age, Aiming at fiction called historical, Will vainly try to reconstruct the times When it was men's preposterous delight To sit astride live horses, which consumed Materials for incalculable cakes ; When there were milkmaids who drew milk from cows With udders kept abnormal for that end Since the rude mythopoeic period Of Aryan dairymen, who did not blush To call their milkmaid and their daughter one — Helplessly gazing at the Milky Way, Nor dreaming of the astral cocoa-nuts A MINOR PROPHET a»T Quite at the service of posterity. 'T is to be feared, though, that the duller boys, Much given to anachronisms and nuts (Elias has confessed boys will be boys), May write a jockey for a centaur, think Europa's suitor was an Irish bull, ^Esop a journalist who wrote up Fox, And Bruin a chief swindler upon 'Change. Boys will be boys, but dogs will all be moral, With longer alimentary canals Suited to diet vegetarian. The uglier breeds will fade from memory, Or, being palaeontological, Live but as portraits in large learned books, Distasteful to the feelings of an age Nourished on purest beauty. Earth will hold No stupid brutes, no cheerful queernesses, No naive cunning, grave absurdity. Wart-pigs with tender and parental grunts, Wombats much flattened as to their contour, Perhaps from too much crushing in the ark, But taking meekly that fatality; The serious cranes, unstung by ridicule ; Long-headed, short-legged, solemn-looking curs, (Wise, silent critics of a flippant age) ; The silly straddling foals, the weak-brained geese Hissing fallaciously at sound of wheels — All these rude products will have disappeared Along with every faulty human type. By dint of diet vegetarian All will be harmony of hue and line, Bodies and minds all perfect, limbs well-turned, And talk quite free from aught erroneous. Thus far Elias in his seer's mantle : But at this climax in his prophecy 398 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT My sinking spirits, fearing to be swamped, Urge me to speak. " High prospects these, my friend, Setting the weak carnivorous brain astretch; We will resume the thread another day." " To-morrow," cries Elias, " at this hour? " " No, not to-morrow — I shall have a cold — At least I feel some soreness — this endemic — Good-bye." No tears are sadder than the smile With which I quit Elias. Bitterly I feel that every change upon this earth Is bought with sacrifice. My yearnings fail To reach that high apocalyptic mount Which shows in bird's-eye view a perfect world, Or enter warmly into other joys Than those of faulty, struggling human kind. That strain upon my soul's too feeble wing Ends in ignoble floundering: I fall Into short-sighted pity for the men Who living in those perfect future times Will not know half the dear imperfect things That move my smiles and tears — will never know The fine old incongruities that raise My friendly laugh; the innocent conceits That like a needless eyeglass or black patch Give those who wear them harmless happiness; The twists and cracks in our poor earthenware That touch me to more conscious fellowship (I am not myself the finest Parian) With my coevals. So poor Colin Clout, To whom raw onion gives prospective zest, Consoling hours of dampest wintry work, Could hardly fancy any regal joys Quite unimpregnate with the onion's scent: A MINOR PROPHET 399 Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear Of waf tings from that energetic bulb; 'T is well that onion is not heresy. Speaking in parable, I am Colin Clout. A clinging flavour penetrates my life — My onion is imperfectness. I cleave To nature's blunders, evanescent types Which sages banish from Utopia. " Not worship beauty ? " say you. Patience, friend ! I worship in the temple with the rest ; But by my hearth I keep a sacred nook For gnomes and dwarfs, duck-footed waddling elves Who stitched and hammered for the weary man In days of old. And in that piety I clothe ungainly forms inherited From toiling generations, daily bent At desk, or plough, or loom, or in the mine, In pioneering labours for the world. Nay, I am apt when floundering confused From too rash flight, to grasp at paradox, And pity future men who will not know A keen experience with pity blent, The pathos exquisite of lovely minds Hid in harsh forms — not penetrating them Like fire divine within a common bush Which glows transfigured by the heavenly guest, So that men put their shoes off; but encaged Like a sweet child within some thick-walled cell, Who leaps and fails to hold the window-bars. But having shown a little dimpled hand Is visited thenceforth by tender hearts Whose eyes keep watch about the prison walls. A foolish, nay, a wicked paradox! For purest pity is the eye of love Melting at sight of sorrow; and to grieve 400 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Because it sees no sorrow, shows a love Warped from its truer nature, turned to love Of merest habit, like the miser's greed. But I am Colin still: my prejudice Is for the flavour of my daily food. Not that I doubt the world is growing still As once it grew from Chaos and from Night ; Or have a soul too shrunken for the hope Which dawned in human breasts, a double morn, With earliest watchings of the rising light Chasing the darkness; and through many an age Has raised the vision of a future time That stands an Angel with a face all mild Spearing the demon. I too rest in faith That man's perfection is the crowning flower, Toward which the urgent sap in life's great tree Is pressing — seen in puny blossoms now, But in the world's great morrows to expand With broadest petal and with deepest glow. Yet, see the patched and plodding citizen Waiting upon the pavement with the throng While some victorious world-hero makes Triumphal entry, and the peal of shouts And flash of faces 'neath uplifted hats Run like a storm of joy along the streets! He says, " God bless him ! " almost with a sob, As the great hero passes ; he is glad The world holds mighty men and mighty deeds, The music stirs his pulses like strong wine, The moving splendour touches him with awe — 'T is glory shed around the common weal, And he will pay his tribute willingly, Though with the pennies earned by sordid toil. Perhaps the hero's deeds have helped to bring A time when every honest citizen A MINOR PROPHET 401 Shall wear a coat unpatched. And yet he feels More easy fellowship with neighbours there Who look on too ; and he will soon relapse From noticing the banners and the steeds To think with pleasure there is just one bun Left in his pocket, that may serve to tempt The wide-eyed lad, whose weight is all too much For that young mother's arms : and then he falls To dreamy picturing of sunny days When he himself was a small big-cheeked lad In some far village where no heroes came, And stood a listener 'twixt his father's legs In the warm firelight, while the old folk talked And shook their heads and looked upon the floor ; And he was puzzled, thinking life was fine — The bread and cheese so nice all through the year And Christmas sure to come. Oh that good time! He, could he choose, would have those days again And see the dear old-fashioned things once more. But soon the wheels and drums have all passed by And tramping feet are heard like sudden rain: The quiet startles our good citizen; He feels the child upon his arms, and knows He is with the people making holiday Because of hopes for better days to come. But Hope to him was like the brilliant west Telling of sunrise in a world unknown, And from that dazzling curtain of bright hues He turned to the familiar face of fields Lying all clear in the calm morning land. Maybe 't is wiser not to fix a lens Too scrutinizing on the glorious times When Barbarossa shall arise and shake His mountain, good King Arthur come again, And all the heroes of such giant soul That, living once to cheer mankind with hope, VOL. xvn — 26 402 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT They had to sleep until the time was ripe For greater deeds to match their greater thought. Yet no ! the earth yields nothing more Divine Than high prophetic vision — than the Seer Who fasting from man's meaner joy beholds The paths of beauteous order, and constructs A fairer type, to shame our low content. But prophecy is like potential sound Which turned to music seems a voice sublime From out the soul of light ; but turns to noise In scrannel pipes, and makes all ears averse. The faith that life on earth is being shaped To glorious ends, that order, justice, love, Mean man's completeness, mean effect as sure As roundness in the dew-drop — that great faith Is but the rushing and expanding stream Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past. Our finest hope is finest memory, As they who love in age think youth is blest Because it has a life to fill with love. Full souls are double mirrors, making still An endless vista of fair things before Repeating things behind; so faith is strong Only when we are strong, shrinks when we shrink ; It comes when music stirs us, and the chords Moving on some grand climax shake our souls With influx new that makes new energies. It comes in swellings of the heart and tears That rise at noble and at gentle deeds — At labours of the master-artist's hand Which, trembling, touches to a finer end, Trembling before an image seen within. It comes in moments of heroic love, Un jealous joy in joy not made for us — In conscious triumph of the good within — A MINOR PROPHET 403 Making us worship goodness that rebukes. Even our failures are a prophecy, Even our yearnings and our bitter tears After that fair and true we cannot grasp ; As patriots who seem to die in vain Make liberty more sacred by their pangs. Presentiment of better things on earth Sweeps in with every force that stirs our souls To admiration, self -renouncing love, Or thoughts, like light, that bind the world in one, — Sweeps like the sense of vastness, when at night We hear the roll and dash of waves that break Nearer and nearer with the rushing tide, Which rises to the level of the cliff Because the wide Atlantic rolls behind, Throbbing respondent to the far-off orbs. 1865 BROTHER AND SISTER I CANNOT choose but think upon the time When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, Because the one so near the other is. He was the elder and a little man Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. I held him wise, and when he talked to me Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, I thought his knowledge marked the boundary Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest. If he said " Hush! " I tried to hold my breath; Wherever he said " Come! " I stepped in faith. ii Long years have left their writing on my brow, But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam Of those young mornings are about me now, When we two wandered toward the far-off stream With rod and line. Our basket held a store Baked for us only, and I thought with joy That I should have my share, though he had more, Because he was the elder and a boy. BROTHER AND SISTER 405 The firmaments of daisies since to me Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, The bunched cowslip's pale transparency Carries that sunshine of sweet memories, And wild-rose branches take their finest scent From those blest hours of infantine content. m Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, Then with the benediction of her gaze Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still Across the homestead to the rookery elms, Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, So rich for us, we counted them as realms With varied products : here were earth-nuts found, And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade ; Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, The large to split for pith, the small to braid ; While over all the dark rooks cawing flew, And made a happy strange solemnity, A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me. IV Our meadow-path had memorable spots: One where it bridged a tiny rivulet, Deep hid by tangled blue Forget-me-nots; And all along the waving grasses met 406 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT My little palm, or nodded to my cheek, When flowers with upturned faces gazing drew My wonder downward, seeming all to speak With eyes of souls that dumbly heard and knew. Then came the copse, where wild things rushed unseen, And black-scathed grass betrayed the past abode Of mystic gypsies, who still lurked between Me and each hidden distance of the road. A gypsy once had startled me at play, Blotting with her dark smile my sunny day. Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest lore, And learned the meanings that give words a soul, The fear, the love, the primal passionate store, Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. Those hours were seed to all my after good ; My infant gladness, through eye, ear, and touch, Took easily as warmth a various food To nourish the sweet skill of loving much. For who in age shall roam the earth and find Reasons for loving that will strike out love With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed mind? Were reasons sown as thick as stars above, 'T is love must see them, as the eyes see light: Day is but Number to the darkened sight. BROTHER AND SISTER 407 VI Our brown canal was endless to my thought; And on its banks I sat in dreamy peace, Unknowing how the good I loved was wrought, Untroubled by the fear that it would cease. Slowly the barges floated into view, Rounding a grassy hill to me sublime With some Unknown beyond it, whither flew The parting cuckoo toward a fresh spring-time. The wide-arched bridge, the scented elder-flowers, The wondrous watery rings that died too soon, The echoes of the quarry, the still hours With white robe sweeping on the shadeless noon, Were but my growing self, are part of me, My present Past, my root of piety. VII Those long days measured by my little feet Had chronicles which yield me many a text; Where irony still finds an image meet Of full-grown judgments in this world perplext. One day my brother left me in high charge, To mind the rod, while he went seeking bait, And bade me, when I saw a nearing barge, Snatch out the line, lest he should come too late. Proud of the task, I watched with all my might For one whole minute, till my eyes grew wide, Till sky and earth took on a strange new light And seemed a dream-world floating on some tide — • 408 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT A fair pavilioned boat for me alone, Bearing me onward through the vast unknown. VIII But sudden came the barge's pitch-black prow, Nearer and angrier came my brother's cry, And all my soul was quivering fear, when, lo! Upon the imperilled line, suspended high, A silver perch ! My guilt that won the prey, Now turned to merit, had a guerdon rich Of hugs and praises, and made merry play, Until my triumph reached its highest pitch When all at home were told the wondrous feat, And how the little sister had fished well. In secret, though my fortune tasted sweet, I wondered why this happiness befell. " The little lass had luck," the gardener said: And so I learned, luck was with glory wed. IX We had the selfsame world enlarged for each By loving difference of girl and boy: The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach He plucked for me, and oft he must employ A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind " This thing I like my sister may not do, For she is little, and I must be kind." BROTHER AND SISTER 409 Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned Where inward vision over impulse reigns, Widening its life with separate life discerned, A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains. His years with others must the sweeter be For those brief days he spent in loving me. His sorrow was my sorrow, and his joy Sent little leaps and laughs through all my frame; My doll seemed lifeless and no girlish toy Had any reason when my brother came. I knelt with him at marbles, marked his fling Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop, Or watched him winding close the spiral string That looped the orbits of the humming top. Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought Ceased with dream-fruit dream- wishes to fulfil; My aery-picturing fantasy was taught Subjection to the harder, truer skill That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked line, And by " What is," " What will be " to define. XI School parted us; we never found again That childish world where our two spirits mingled Like scents from varying roses that remain One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled. 410 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Yet the twin habit of that early time Lingered for long about the heart and tongue: We had been natives of one happy clime, And its dear accent to our utterance clung, Till the dire years whose awful name is Change Had grasped our souls still yearning in divorce, And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range Two elements which sever their life's course. But were another childhood-world my share, I would be born a little sister there. 1869 STRADIVARIUS YOUR soul was lifted by the wings to-day Hearing the master of the violin: You praised him, praised the great Sebas- tian too Who made that fine Chaconne : but did you think Of old Antonio Stradivari? — him Who a good century and half ago Put his true work in that brown instrument And by the nice adjustment of its frame Gave it responsive life, continuous With the master's finger-tips and perfected Like them by delicate rectitude of use. Not Bach alone, helped by fine precedent Of genius gone before, nor Joachim Who holds the strain afresh incorporate By inward hearing and notation strict Of nerve and muscle, made our joy to-day: Another soul was living in the air And swaying it to true deliverance Of high invention and responsive skill : That plain white-aproned man who stood at work Patient and accurate full fourscore years, Cherished his sight and touch by temperance, And since keen sense is love of perfectness Made perfect violins, the needed paths For inspiration and high mastery. No simpler man than he: he never cried, " Why was I born to this monotonous task Of making violins? " or flung them down To suit with hurling act a well-hurled curse 412 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT At labour on such perishable stuff . Hence neighbours in Cremona held him dull, Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine, Begged him to tell his motives or to lend A few gold pieces to a loftier mind. Yet he had pithy words full fed by fact ; For Fact, well-trusted, reasons and persuades, Is gnomic, cutting, or ironical, Draws tears, or is a tocsin to arouse — Can hold all figures of the orator In one plain sentence; has her pauses too — Eloquent silence at the chasm abrupt Where knowledge ceases. Thus Antonio Made answers as Fact willed, and made them strong. Naldo, a painter of eclectic school, Taking his dicers, candlelight and grins From Caravaggio, and in holier groups Combining Flemish flesh with martyrdom — Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one, And weary of them, while Antonio At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best, Making the violin you heard to-day — Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims. " Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed — The love of louis d'ors in heaps of four, Each violin a heap — I Ve naught to blame ; My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work With painful nicety? Since fame once earned By luck or merit — oftenest by luck — (Else why do I put Bonifazio's name To work that * pinacit Naldo ' would not sell?) Is welcome index to the wealthy mob Where they should pay their gold, and where they pay STRADIVARIUS 418 There they find merit — take your tow for flax, And hold the flax unlabelled with your name, Too coarse for sufferance." Antonio then: " I like the gold — well, yes — but not for meals. And as my stomach, so my eye and hand, And inward sense that works along with both, Have hunger that can never feed on coin. Who draws a line and satisfies his soul, Making it crooked where it should be straight? An idiot with an oyster-shell may draw His lines along the sand, all wavering, Fixing no point or pathway to a point; An idiot one remove may choose his line, Straggle and be content; but God be praised, Antonio Stradivari has an eye That winces at false work and loves the true, With hand and arm that play upon the tool As willingly as any singing bird Sets him to sing his morning roundelay, Because he likes to sing and likes the song. Then Naldo: " 'T is a petty kind of fame At best, that comes of making violins; And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go To purgatory none the less." But he: 'T were purgatory here to make them ill ; And for my fame — when any master holds 'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine, He will be glad that Stradivari lived, Made violins, and made them of the best. The masters only know whose work is good; They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill 414 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT I give them instruments to play upon, God choosing me to help Him." "What! were God At fault for violins, thou absent? " "Yes; He were at fault for Stradivari's work." ;' Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins As good as thine." " May be : they are different. His quality declines: he spoils his hand With over-drinking. But were his the best, He could not work for two. My work is mine, And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked I should rob God — since He is fullest good — Leaving a blank instead of violins. I say, not God Himself can make man's best Without best men to help Him. I am one best Here in Cremona, using sunlight well To fashion finest maple till it serves More cunningly than throats, for harmony. 'T is rare delight : I would not change my skill To be the Emperor with bungling hands, And lose my work, which comes as natural As self at waking." " Thou art little more Than a deft potter's wheel, Antonio; Turning out work by mere necessity And lack of varied function. Higher arts Subsist on freedom — eccentricity — Uncounted inspirations — influence That comes with drinking, gambling, talk turned wild, Then moody misery and lack of food — With every dithyrambic fine excess: STRADIVARIUS 415 These make at last a storm which flashes out In lightning revelations. Steady work Turns genius to a loom; the soul must lie Like grapes beneath the sun till ripeness comes And mellow vintage. I could paint you now The finest Crucifixion; yesternight Returning home I saw it on a sky Blue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'ors To buy the canvas and the costly blues — Trust me a fortnight." " Where are those last two I lent thee for thy Judith? — her thou saw'st In saffron gown, with Holofernes's head And beauty all complete? " " She is but sketched: I lack the proper model — and the mood. A great idea is an eagle's egg, Craves time for hatching; while the eagle sits, Feed her." " If thou wilt call thy pictures eggs, I call the hatching, Work. 'T is God gives skill, But not without men's hands : He could not make Antonio Stradivari's violins Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel." 1873 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY YOUNG Hamlet, not the hesitating Dane, But one named after him, who lately strove For honours at our English Wittenberg — Blond, metaphysical, and sensuous, Questioning all things and yet half convinced Credulity were better; held inert 'Twixt fascinations of all opposites, And half suspecting that the mightiest soul (Perhaps his own?) was union of extremes, Having no choice but choice of everything As, drinking deep to-day for love of wine, To-morrow half a Brahmin, scorning life As mere illusion, yearning for that True Which has no qualities; another day Finding the fount of grace in sacraments, And purest reflex of the light divine In gem-bossed pyx and broidered chasuble, Resolved to wear no stockings and to fast With arms extended, waiting ecstasy; But getting cramps instead, and needing change, A would-be pagan next: Young Hamlet sat A guest with five of somewhat riper age At breakfast with Horatio, a friend With few opinions, but of faithful heart, Quick to detect the fibrous spreading roots Of character that feed men's theories, Yet cloaking weaknesses with charity And ready in all service save rebuke. With ebb of breakfast and the cider-cup Came high debate: the others seated there COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 417 Were Osric, spinner of fine sentences, A delicate insect creeping over life Feeding on molecules of floral breath, And weaving gossamer to trap the sun; Laertes, ardent, rash, and radical; Discursive Rosencranz, grave Guildenstern, And he for whom the social meal was made — The polished priest, a tolerant listener, Disposed to give a hearing to the lost, And breakfast with them ere they went below. From alpine metaphysic glaciers first The talk sprang copious; the themes were old, But so is human breath, so infant eyes, The daily nurslings of creative light. Small words held mighty meanings: Matter, Force, Self, Not-self, Being, Seeming, Space and Time — Plebeian toilers on the dusty road Of daily traffic, turned to Genii And cloudy giants darkening sun and moon. Creation was reversed in human talk: None said, " Let Darkness be," but Darkness was ; And in it weltered with Teutonic ease, An argumentative Leviathan, Blowing cascades from out his element, The thunderous Rosencranz, till "Truce, I beg!" Said Osric, with nice accent. " I abhor That battling of the ghosts, that strife of terms For utmost lack of colour, form, and breath, That tasteless squabbling called Philosophy As if a blue- winged butterfly afloat For just three days above the Italian fields, Poising in sunshine, fluttering toward its bride, Should fast and speculate, considering VOL. xvn — 27 418 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT What were if it were not? or what now is Instead of that which seems to be itself? Its deepest wisdom surely were to be A sipping, marrying, blue-winged butterfly; Since utmost speculation on itself Were but a three days' living of worse sort — A bruising struggle all within the bounds Of butterfly existence." " I protest," Burst in Laertes, " against arguments That start with calling me a butterfly, A bubble, spark, or other metaphor Which carries your conclusions as a phrase In quibbling law will carry property. Put a thin sucker for my human lips Fed at a mother's breast, who now needs food That I will earn for her; put bubbles blown From frothy thinking, for the joy, the love, The wants, the pity, and the fellowship (The ocean deeps I might say, were I bent On bandying metaphors) that make a man — Why, rhetoric brings within your easy reach Conclusions worthy of — a butterfly. The universe, I hold, is no charade, No acted pun unriddled by a word, Nor pain a decimal diminishing With hocus-pocus of a dot or naught. For those who know it, pain is solely pain: Not any letters of the alphabet Wrought syllogistically pattern-wise, Nor any cluster of fine images, Nor any missing of their figured dance By blundering molecules. Analysis May show you the right physic for the ill, Teaching the molecules to find their dance, Instead of sipping at the heart of flowers. COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 419 But spare me your analogies, that hold Such insight as the figure of a crow And bar of music put to signify A crowbar." Said the Priest, " There I agree — Would add that sacramental grace is grace Which to be known must first be felt, with all The strengthening influxes that come by prayer. I note this passingly — would not delay The conversation's tenor, save to hint That taking stand with Rosencranz one sees Final equivalence of all we name Our Good and 111 — their difference meanwhile Being inborn prejudice that plumps you down An Ego, brings a weight into your scale Forcing a standard. That resistless weight Obstinate, irremovable by thought, Persisting through disproof, an ache, a need That spaceless stays where sharp analysis Has shown a plenum filled without it — what If this, to use your phrase, were just that Being Not looking solely, grasping from the dark, Weighing the difference you call Ego? This Gives you persistence, regulates the flux With strict relation rooted in the All. Who is he of your late philosophers Takes the true name of Being to be Will? I — nay, the Church objects naught, is content Reason has reached its utmost negative, Physic and metaphysic meet in the inane And backward shrink to intense prejudice, Making their absolute and homogene A loaded relative, a choice to be Whatever is — supposed: a What is not. The Church demands no more, has standing room And basis for her doctrine: this (no more) — 420 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT That the strong bias which we name the Soul, Though fed and clad by dissoluble waves, Has antecedent quality, and rules By veto or consent the strife of thought, Making arbitrament that we call faith." Here was brief silence, till young Hamlet spoke. " I crave direction, Father, how to know The sign of that imperative whose right To sway my act in face of thronging doubts Were an oracular gem in price beyond Urim and Thummim lost to Israel. That bias of the soul, that conquering die Loaded with golden emphasis of Will — How find it where resolve, once made, becomes The rash exclusion of an opposite Which draws the stronger as I turn aloof." " I think I hear a bias in your words," The Priest said mildly — " that strong natural bent Which we call hunger. What more positive Than appetite? — of spirit or of flesh, I care not — ' sense of need ' were truer phrase. You hunger for authoritative right, And yet discern no difference of tones, No weight of rod that marks imperial rule? Laertes granting, I will put your case In analogic form: the doctors hold Hunger which gives no relish — save caprice That tasting venison fancies mellow pears — A symptom of disorder, and prescribe Strict discipline. Were I physician here I would prescribe that exercise of soul Which lies in full obedience: you ask, Obedience to what? The answer lies Within the word itself; for how obey What has no rule, asserts no absolute claim? COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 421 Take inclination, taste — why, that is you, No rule above you. Science, reasoning On nature's order — they exist and move Solely by disputation, hold no pledge Of final consequence, but push the swing Where Epicurus and the Stoic sit In endless see-saw. One authority, And only one, says simply this, Obey: Place yourself in that current (test it so!) Of spiritual order where at least Lies promise of a high communion, A Head informing members, Life that breathes With gift of forces over and above The plus of arithmetic interchange. ' The Church too has a body,' you object, ' Can be dissected, put beneath the lens And shown the merest continuity Of all existence else beneath the sun.' I grant you; but the lens will not disprove A present which eludes it. Take your wit, Your highest passion, widest-reaching thought: Show their conditions if you will or can, But though you saw the final atom-dance Making each molecule that stands for sign Of love being present, where is still your love? How measure that, how certify its weight? And so I say, the body of the Church Carries a Presence, promises and gifts Never disproved — whose argument is found In lasting failure of the search elsewhere For what it holds to satisfy man's need. But I grow lengthy: my excuse must be Your question, Hamlet, which has probed right through To the pith of our belief. And I have robbed Myself of pleasure as a listener. 422 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT *T is noon, I see ; and my appointment stands For half-past twelve with Voltimand. Good-bye." 'Brief parting, brief regret — sincere, but quenched In fumes of best Havana, which consoles For lack of other certitude. Then said, Mildly sarcastic, quiet Guildenstern : " I marvel how the Father gave new charm JTo weak conclusions: I was half convinced The poorest reasoner made the finest man, And held his logic lovelier for its limp." " I fain would hear," said Hamlet, " how you find A stronger footing than the Father gave. How base your self -resistance save on faith In some invisible Order, higher Right Than changing impulse. What does Reason bid? To take as fullest rationality What offers best solution: so the Church. Science, detecting hydrogen aflame Outside our firmament, leaves mystery Whole and untouched beyond; nay, in our blood And in the potent atoms of each germ The Secret lives — envelops, penetrates Whatever sense perceives or thought divines. Science, whose soul is explanation, halts With hostile front at mystery. The Church Takes mystery as her empire, brings its wealth Of possibility to fill the void 'Twixt contradictions — warrants so a faith Defying sense and all its ruthless train Of arrogant ' There fores.' Science with her lens Dissolves the Forms that made the other half Of all our love, which thenceforth widowed lives To gaze with maniac stare at what is not. The Church explains not, governs — feeds resolve COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 423 By vision fraught with heart-experience Aiid human yearning." " Ay," said Guildenstern, With friendly nod, " the Father, I can see, Has caught you up in his air-chariot. His thought takes rainbow-bridges, out of reach By solid obstacles, evaporates The coarse and common into subtilties, Insists that what is real in the Church Is something out of evidence, and begs (Just in parenthesis) you '11 never mind What stares you in the face and bruises you. Why, by his method I could justify Each superstition and each tyranny That ever rode upon the back of man, Pretending fitness for his sole defence Against life's evil. How can aught subsist That holds no theory of gain or good? Despots with terror in their red right hand Must argue good to helpers and themselves, Must let submission hold a core of gain To make their slaves choose life. Their theory, Abstracting inconvenience of racks, Whip-lashes, dragonnades and all things coarse Inherent in the fact or concrete mass, Presents the pure idea — utmost good Secured by Order only to be found In strict subordination, hierarchy Of forces where, by nature's law, the strong Has rightful empire, rule of weaker proved Mere dissolution. What can you object? The Inquisition — if you turn away From narrow notice how the scent of gold Has guided sense of damning heresy — The Inquisition is sublime, is love Hindering the spread of poison in men's souls: 424 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The flames are nothing: only smaller pain To hinder greater, or the pain of one To save the many, such as throbs at heart Of every system born into the world. So of the Church as high communion Of Head with members, fount of spirit force Beyond the calculus, and carrying proof In her sole power to satisfy man's need: That seems ideal truth as clear as lines That, necessary though invisible, trace The balance of the planets and the sun — Until I find a hitch in that last claim. * To satisfy man's need.' Sir, that depends : We settle first the measure of man's need Before we grant capacity to fill. John, James, or Thomas, you may satisfy: But since you choose ideals I demand Your Church shall satisfy ideal man, His utmost reason and his utmost love. And say these rest a-hungered — find no scheme Content them both, but hold the world accursed, A Calvary where Reason mocks at Love, And Love forsaken sends out orphan cries Hopeless of answer; still the soul remains Larger, diviner than your half-way Church, Which racks your reason into false consent, And soothes your Love with sops of selfish- ness." " There I am with you," cried Laertes. ' What To me are any dictates, though they came With thunders from the Mount, if still within I see a higher Right, a higher Good Compelling love and worship? Though the earth Held force electric to discern and kill Each thinking rebel — what is martyrdom But death-defying utterance of belief, COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 425 Which being mine remains my truth supreme Though solitary as the throb of pain Lying outside the pulses of the world? Obedience is good: ay, but to what? And for what ends? For say that I rebel Against your rule as devilish, or as rule Of thunder-guiding powers that deny Man's highest benefit : rebellion then Were strict obedience to another rule Which bids me flout your thunder." " Lo you now! " Said Osric, delicately, " how you come, Laertes mine, with all your warring zeal As Python-slayer of the present age — Cleansing all social swamps by darting rays Of dubious doctrine, hot with energy Of private judgment and disgust for doubt — To state my thesis, which you most abhor When sung in Daphnis-notes beneath the pines To gentle rush of waters. Your belief — In essence what is it but simply Taste? I urge with you exemption from all claims That come from other than my proper will, An Ultimate within to balance yours, A solid meeting you, excluding you, Till you show fuller force by entering My spiritual space and crushing Me To a subordinate complement of You: Such ultimate must stand alike for all. Preach your crusade, then: all will join who like The hurly-burly of aggressive creeds; Still your unpleasant Ought, your itch to choose What grates upon the sense, is simply Taste, Differs, I think, from mine (permit the word, Discussion forces it) in being bad." 426 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The tone was too polite to breed offence, Showing a tolerance of what was " bad " Becoming courtiers. Louder Rosencranz Took up the ball with rougher movement, wont To show contempt for doting reasoners Who hugged some reasons with a preference, As warm Laertes did: he gave five puffs Intolerantly sceptical, then said: " Your human good, which you would make supreme, How do you know it ? Has it shown its face In adamantine type, with features clear, As this republic, or that monarchy? As federal grouping, or municipal? Equality, or finely shaded lines Of social difference? ecstatic whirl And draught intense of passionate joy and pain, Or sober self-control that starves its youth And lives to wonder what the world calls joy? Is it in sympathy that shares men's pangs, Or in cool brains that can explain them well? Is it in labour or in laziness? In training for the tug of rivalry To be admired, or in the admiring soul? In risk or certitude? In battling rage And hardy challenges of Protean luck, Or in a sleek and rural apathy Full fed with sameness? Pray define your Good Beyond rejection by majority; Next, how it may subsist without the 111 Which seems its only outline. Show a world Of pleasure not resisted; or a world Of pressure equalized, yet various In action formative; for that will serve As illustration of your human good — Which at its perfecting (your goal of hope) COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 427 Will not be straight extinct, or fall to sleep In the deep bosom of the Unchangeable. What will you work for, then, and call it good With full and certain vision — good for aught Save partial ends which happen to be yours? How will you get your stringency to bind Thought or desire in demonstrated tracks Which are but waves within a balanced whole? Is ' relative ' the magic word that turns Your flux mercurial of good to gold? Why, that analysis at which you rage As anti-social force that sweeps you down The world in one cascade of molecules, Is brother ' relative ' - and grins at you Like any convict whom you thought to send Outside society, till this enlarged And meant New England and Australia too. The Absolute is your shadow, and the space Which you say might be real were you milled To curves pellicular, the thinnest thin, Equation of no thickness, is still you." " Abstracting all that makes him clubbable," Horatio interposed. But Rosencranz, Deaf as the angry turkey-cock whose ears Are plugged by swollen tissues when he scolds At men's pretensions : " Pooh, your ' Relative ' Shuts you in, hopeless, with your progeny As in a Hunger-tower; your social good, Like other deities by turn supreme, Is transient reflex of a prejudice, Anthology of causes and effects To suit the mood of fanatics who lead The mood of tribes or nations. I admit If you could show a sword, nay, chance of sword Hanging conspicuous to their inward eyes 428 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT With edge so constant threatening as to sway All greed and lust by terror; and a law Clear-writ and proven as the law supreme Which that dread sword enforces — .then your Right, Duty, or social Good, were it once brought To common measure with the potent law, Would dip the scale, would put unchanging marks Of wisdom or of folly on each deed, And warrant exhortation. Until then, Where is your standard or criterion? * What always, everywhere, by all men ' — why, That were but Custom, and your system needs Ideals never yet incorporate, The imminent doom of Custom. Can you find Appeal beyond the sentience in each man? Frighten the blind with scarecrows? raise an awe Of things unseen where appetite commands Chambers of imagery in the soul At all its avenues? — You chant your hymns To Evolution, on your altar lay A sacred egg called Progress: have you proved A Best unique where all is relative, And where each change is loss as well as gain? The age of healthy Saurians, well supplied With heat and prey, will balance well enough A human age where maladies are strong And pleasures feeble; wealth a monster gorged 'Mid hungry populations; intellect Aproned in laboratories, bent on proof That this is that and both are good for naught Save feeding error through a weary life; While Art and Poesy struggle like poor ghosts To hinder cock-crow and the dreadful light, Lurking in darkness and the charnel-house, Or like two stalwart graybeards, imbecile COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 429 With limbs still active, playing at belief, That hunt the slipper, foot-ball, hide-and-seek, Are sweetly merry, donning pinafores And lisping emulously in their speech. 0 human race! Is this then all thy gain? — Working at disproof, playing at belief, Debate on causes, distaste of effects, Power to transmute all elements, and lack Of any power to sway the fatal skill And make thy lot aught else than rigid doom? The Saurians were better. — Guildenstern, Pass me the taper. Still the human curse Has mitigation in the best cigars." Then swift Laertes, not without a glare Of leonine wrath: " I thank thee for that word: That one confession, were I Socrates, Should force you onward till you ran your head At your own image — flatly gave the lie To all your blasphemy of that human good Which bred and nourished you to sit at ease And learnedly deny it. Say the world Groans ever with the pangs of doubtful births: Say, life 's a poor donation at the best — Wisdom a yearning after nothingness — Nature's great vision and the thrill supreme Of thought-fed passion but a weary play — 1 argue not against you. Who can prove Wit to be witty when with deeper ground Dulness intuitive declares wit dull? If life is worthless to you — why, it is. You only know how little love you feel To give you fellowship, how little force Responsive to the quality of things. Then end your life, throw off the unsought yoke. If not — if you remain to taste cigars, 430 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Choose racy diction, perorate at large With tacit scorn of meaner men who win No wreath or tripos — then admit at least A possible Better in the seeds of earth; Acknowledge debt to that laborious life Which, sifting evermore the mingled seeds, Testing the Possible with patient skill, And daring ill in presence of a good For futures to inherit, made your lot One you would choose rather than end it, nay, Rather than, say, some twenty million lots Of fellow-Britons toiling all to make That nation, that community, whereon You feed and thrive and talk philosophy. I am no optimist whose faith must hang On hard pretence that pain is beautiful And agony explained for men at ease By virtue's exercise in pitying it. But this I hold: that he who takes one gift Made for him by the hopeful work of man, Who tastes sweet bread, walks where he will unarmed, His shield and warrant the invisible law, Who owns a hearth and household charities, Who clothes his body and his sentient soul With skill and thoughts of men, and yet denies A human good worth toiling for, is cursed With worse negation than the poet feigned In Mephistopheles. The Devil spins His wire-drawn argument against all good With sense of brimstone as his private lot, And never drew a solace from the Earth." Laertes fuming paused, and Guildenstern Took up with cooler skill the fusillade: " I meet your deadliest challenge, Rosencranz: COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 431 Where get, you say, a binding law, a rule Enforced by sanction, and Ideal throned With thunder in its hand? I answer, there Whence every faith and rule has drawn its force Since human consciousness awaking owned An Outward, whose unconquerable sway Resisted first and then subdued desire By pressure of the dire Impossible Urging to possible ends the active soul And shaping so its terror and its love. Why, you have said it — threats and promises Depend on each man's sentience for their force: All sacred rules, imagined or revealed, Can have no form or potency apart From the percipient and emotive mind. God, duty, love, submission, fellowship, Must first be framed in man, as music is, Before they live outside him as a law. And still they grow and shape themselves anew, With fuller concentration in their life Of inward and of outward energies Blending to make the last result called Man, Which means, not this or that philosopher Looking through beauty into blankness, not The swindler who has sent his fruitful lie By the last telegram : it means the tide Of needs reciprocal, toil, trust, and love — The surging multitude of human claims Which make ' a presence not to be put by ' Above the horizon of the general soul. Is inward Reason shrunk to subtleties, And inward wisdom pining passion-starved? — The outward Reason has the world in store, Regenerates passion with the stress of want, Regenerates knowledge with discovery, Shows sly rapacious Self a blunderer, Widens dependence, knits the social whole In sensible relation more defined. Do Boards and dirty-handed millionnaires Govern the planetary system? — sway The pressure of the Universe? — decide That man henceforth shall retrogress to ape, Emptied of every sympathetic thrill The All has wrought in him? dam up henceforth The flood of human claims as private force To turn their wheels and make a private hell For fish-pond to their mercantile domain? What are they but a parasitic growth On the vast real and ideal world Of man and nature blent in one divine? Why, take your closing dirge — say evil grows And good is dwindling; science mere decay, Mere dissolution of ideal wholes Which through the ages past alone have made The earth and firmament of human faith; Say, the small arc of Being we call man Is near its mergence, what seems growing life Naught but a hurrying change toward lower types, The ready rankness of degeneracy. Well, they who mourn for the world's dying good May take their common sorrows for a rock, • On it erect religion and a church, A worship, rites, and passionate piety — The worship of the Best though crucified And God-forsaken in its dying pangs; The sacramental rites of fellowship In common woe; visions that purify Through admiration and despairing love Which keep their spiritual life intact Beneath the murderous clutches of disproof And feed a martyr-strength." COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 488 "Religion high!" (Rosencranz here) "But with communicants Few as the cedars upon Lebanon — A child might count them. What the world de- mands Is faith coercive of the multitude." " Tush, Guildenstern, you granted him too much," Burst in Laertes; "I will never grant One inch of law to feeble blasphemies Which hold no higher ratio to life — Full vigorous human life that peopled earth And wrought and fought and loved and bravely died — Than the sick morning glooms of debauchees. Old nations breed old children, wizened babes Whose youth is languid and incredulous, Weary of life without the will to die; Their passions visionary appetites Of bloodless spectres wailing that the world For lack of substance slips from out their grasp; Their thoughts the withered husks of all things dead, Holding no force of germs instinct with life, Which never hesitates but moves and grows. Yet hear them boast in screams their godlike ill, Excess of knowing! Fie on you, Rosencranz! You lend your brains and fine-dividing tongue For bass-notes to this shrivelled crudity, This immature decrepitude that strains To fill our ears and claim the prize of strength For mere unmanliness. Out on them all! — Wits, puling minstrels, and philosophers, Who living softly prate of suicide, And suck the commonwealth to feed their ease While they vent epigrams and threnodies, VOL. xvn — 28 434 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Mocking or wailing all the eager work .Which makes that public store whereon they feed. Is wisdom flattened sense and mere distaste? Why, any superstition warm with love, Inspired with purpose, wild with energy That streams resistless through its ready frame, Has more of human truth within its life Than souls that look through colour into naught — Whose brain, too unimpassioned for delight, Has feeble ticklings of a vanity Which finds the universe beneath its mark, And scorning the blue heavens as merely blue Can only say, ' What then? ' — pre-eminent In wondrous want of likeness to their kind, Founding that worship of sterility Whose one supreme is vacillating Will Which makes the Light, then says, ' 'T were better not.' ' Here rash Laertes brought his Handel-strain As of some angry Polypheme, to pause; And Osric, shocked at ardours out of taste, Relieved the audience with a tenor voice And delicate delivery. " For me, I range myself in line with Rosencranz Against all schemes, religious or profane, That flaunt a Good as pretext for a lash To flog us all who have the better taste, Into conformity, requiring me At peril of the thong and sharp disgrace To care how mere Philistines pass their lives; Whether the English pauper-total grows From one to two before the naughts; how far Teuton will outbreed Roman; if the class Of proletaires will make a federal band COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 435 To bind all Europe and America, Throw, in their wrestling, every government, Snatch the world's purse and keep the guillotine: Or else (admitting these are casualties) Driving my soul with scientific hail That shuts the landscape out with particles; Insisting that the Palingenesis Means telegraphs and measure of the rate At which the stars move — nobody knows where. So far, my Rosencranz, we are at one. But not when you blaspheme the life of Art, The sweet perennial youth of Poesy, Which asks no logic but its sensuous growth, No right but loveliness; which fearless strolls Betwixt the burning mountain and the sea, Reckless of earthquake and the lava stream, Filling its hour with beauty. It knows naught Of bitter strife, denial, grim resolve. Sour resignation, busy emphasis Of fresh illusions named the new-born True, Old Error's latest child; but as a lake Images all things, yet within its depths Dreams them all lovelier — thrills with sound And makes a harp of plenteous liquid chords — So Art or Poesy: we its votaries Are the Olympians, fortunately born From the elemental mixture ; 't is our lot To pass more swiftly than the Delian God, But still the earth breaks into flowers for us, And mortal sorrows when they reach our ears Are dying falls to melody divine. Hatred, war, vice, crime, sin, those human storms, Cyclones, floods, what you will — outbursts of force — Feed art with contrast, give the grander touch To the master's pencil and the poet's song, 486 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Serve as Vesuvian fires or navies tossed On yawning waters, which when viewed afar Deepen the calm sublime of those choice souls Who keep the heights of poesy and turn A fleckless mirror to the various world, Giving its many-named and fitful flux An imaged, harmless, spiritual life, With pure selection, native to art's frame, Of beauty only, save its minor scale Of ill and pain to give the ideal joy A keener edge. This is a mongrel globe ; All finer being wrought from its coarse earth Is but accepted privilege: what else Your boasted virtue, which proclaims itself A good above the average consciousness? Nature exists by partiality (Each planet's poise must carry two^extremes With verging breadths of minor wretchedness) : We are her favourites and accept our wings. For your accusal, Rosencranz, that art Shares in the dread and weakness of the time, I hold it null; since art or poesy pure, Being blameless by all standards save her own, Takes no account of modern or antique In morals, science, or philosophy: No dull elenchus makes a yoke for her, Whose law and measure are the sweet consent Of sensibilities that move apart From rise or fall of systems, states or creeds — Apart from what Philistines call man's weal." " Ay, we all know those votaries of the Muse Ravished with singing till they quite forgot Their manhood, sang, and gaped, and took no food, Then died of emptiness, and for reward COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 487 Lived on as grasshoppers" — Laertes thus: But then he checked himself as one who feels His muscles dangerous, and Guildenstern Filled up the pause with calmer confidence. * You use your wings, my Osric, poise yourself Safely outside all reach of argument, Then dogmatize at will (a method known To ancient women and philosophers, Nay, to Philistines whom you most abhor) ; Else, could an arrow reach you, I should ask Whence came taste, beauty, sensibilities Refined to preference infallible? Doubtless, ye 're gods — these odours ye inhale, A sacrificial scent. But how, I pray, Are odours made, if not by gradual change Of sense or substance? Is your beautiful A seedless, rootless flower, or has it grown With human growth, which means the rising sun Of human struggle, order, knowledge? — sense Trained to a fuller record, more exact — To truer guidance of each passionate force? Get me your roseate flesh without the blood; Get fine aromas without structure wrought From simpler being into manifold: Then and then only flaunt your Beautiful As what can live apart from thought, creeds, states. Which mean life's structure. Osric, I beseech — The infallible should be more catholic — Join in a war-dance with the cannibals, Hear Chinese music, love a face tattooed, Give adoration to a pointed skull, And think the Hindu Siva looks divine: 'T is art, 't is poesy. Say, you object: How came you by that lofty dissidence, If not through changes in the social man 438 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Widening his consciousness from Here and Now To larger wholes beyond the reach of sense; Controlling to a fuller harmony The thrill of passion and the rule of fact; And paling false ideals in the light Of full-rayed sensibilities which blend Truth and desire? Taste, beauty, what are they But the soul's choice toward perfect bias wrought By finer balance of a fuller growth — Sense brought to subtlest metamorphosis Through love, thought, joy — the general human store Which grows from all life's functions? As the plant Holds its corolla, purple, delicate, Solely as outflush of that energy Which moves transformingly in root and branch." Guildenstern paused, and Hamlet quivering Since Osric spoke, in transit imminent From catholic striving into laxity, Ventured his word. " Seems to me, Guildenstern, Your argument, though shattering Osric's point That sensibilities can move apart From social order, yet has not annulled His thesis that the life of poesy (Admitting it must grow from out the whole) Has separate functions, a transfigured realm Freed from the rigours of the practical, Where what is hidden from the grosser world — Stormed down by roar of engines and the shouts Of eager concourse — rises beauteous As voice of water-drops in sapphire caves; A realm where finest spirits have free sway In exquisite selection, uncontrolled By hard material necessity Of cause and consequence. For you will grant COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY 439 The Ideal has discoveries which ask No test, no faith, save that we joy in them: A new-found continent, with spreading lands Where pleasure charters all, where virtue, rank, Use, right, and truth have but one name, Delight. Thus Art's creations, when etherealized To least admixture of the grosser fact Delight may stamp as highest." "Possible!" Said Guildenstern, with touch of weariness, " But then we might dispute of what is gross, What high, what low." " Nay," said Laertes, " ask The mightiest makers who have reigned, still reign Within the ideal realm. See if their thought Be drained of practice and the thick warm blood Of hearts that beat in action various Through the wide drama of the struggling world. Good-bye, Horatio." Each now said " Good-bye." Such breakfast, such beginning of the day Is more than half the whole. The sun was hot On southward branches of the meadow elms, The shadows slowly farther crept and veered Like changing memories, and Hamlet strolled Alone and dubious on the empurpled path Between the waving grasses of new June Close by the stream where well-compacted boats Were moored or moving with a lazy creak To the soft dip of oars. All sounds were light As tiny silver bells upon the robes Of hovering silence. Birds made twitterings 440 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT That seemed but Silence' self o'erfull of love. 'T was invitation all to sweet repose ; And Hamlet, drowsy with the mingled draughts Of cider and conflicting sentiments, Chose a green couch and watched with half -closed eyes The meadow-road, the stream and dreamy lights, Until they merged themselves in sequence strange With undulating ether, time, the soul, The will supreme, the individual claim, The social Ought, the lyrist's liberty, Democritus, Pythagoras, in talk With Anselm, Darwin, Comte, and Schopenhauer, The poets rising slow from out their tombs Summoned as arbiters — that border- world Of dozing, ere the sense is fully locked. And then he dreamed a dream so luminous He woke (he says) convinced; but what it taught Withholds as yet. Perhaps those graver shades Admonished him that visions told in haste Part with their virtues to the squandering lips And leave the soul in wider emptiness. April, 1874 TWO LOVERS TWO lovers by a moss-grown spring : They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. O budding time! O love's blest prime 1 Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carollings, The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride! O tender pride! Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked : These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power! Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife! 442 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past! The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, " Once more! " O memories! O past that is! 1866 SELF AND LIFE C SELF HANGEFUL comrade, Life of mine, Before we two must part, I will tell thee, thou shalt say, What thou hast been and art. Ere I lose my hold of thee Justify thyself to me. LIFE I was thy warmth upon thy mother's knee When light and love within her eyes were one; We laughed together by the laurel-tree, Culling warm daisies 'neath the sloping sun; We heard the chickens' lazy croon, Where the trellised woodbines grew, And all the summer afternoon Mystic gladness o'er thee threw. Was it person? Was it thing? Was it touch or whispering? It was bliss and it was I: Bliss was what thou knew'st me by. SELF Soon I knew thee more by Fear And sense of what was not, Haunting all I held most dear; I had a double lot: Ardour, cheated with alloy, Wept the more for dreams of joy. 444 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT LIFE Remember how thy ardour's magic sense Made poor things rich to thee and small things great; How hearth and garden, field and bushy fence, Were thy own eager love incorporate; And how the solemn, splendid Past O'er thy early widened earth Made grandeur, as on sunset cast Dark elms near take mighty girth. Hands and feet were tiny still When we knew the historic thrill, Breathed deep breath in heroes dead, Tasted the immortals' bread. SELF Seeing what I might have been Reproved the thing I was, Smoke on heaven's clearest sheen, The speck within the rose. By revered ones' frailties stung Reverence was with anguish wrung. LIFE But all thy anguish and thy discontent Was growth of mine, the elemental strife Toward feeling manifold with vision blent To wider thought: I was no vulgar life That, like water-mirrored ape, Not discerns the thing it sees, Nor knows its own in others' shape, Railing, scorning, at its ease. SELF AND LIFE 445 Half man's truth must hidden lie If unlit by Sorrow's eye. I by Sorrow wrought in thee Willing pain of ministry. SELF Slowly was the lesson taught Through passion, error, care; Insight was the loathing fraught And effort with despair. Written on the wall I saw " Bow! " I knew, not loved, the law. LIFE But then I brought a love that wrote within The law of gratitude, and made thy heart Beat to the heavenly tune of seraphim Whose only joy in having is, to impart: Till thou, poor Self — despite thy ire, Wrestling 'gainst my mingled share, Thy faults, hard falls, and vain desire Still to be what others were — Filled, o'erflowed with tenderness Seeming more as thou wert less, Knew me through that anguish past As a fellowship more vast. SELF Yea, I embrace thee, changeful Life! Far-sent, unchosen mate! Self and thou, no more at strife, Shall wed in hallowed state. Willing spousals now shall prove Life is justified by love. SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE " La noche buena se viene, La noche buena se va, Y nosotros nos iremos Y no volveremos mas. Old VUlancico. s WEET evenings come and go, love, They came and went of yore: This evening of our life, love, Shall go and come no more. When we have passed away, love, All things will keep their name; But yet no life on earth, love, With ours will be the same. The daisies will be there, love, The stars in heaven will shine: I shall not feel thy wish, love, Nor thou my hand in thine. A better time will come, love, And better souls be born: I would not be the best, love, To leave thee now forlorn. THE DEATH OF MOSES MOSES, who spake with God as with his friend, And ruled his people with the twofold power Of wisdom that can dare and still be meek, Was writing his last word, the sacred name Unutterable of that Eternal Will Which was and is and evermore shall be. Yet was his task not finished, for the flock Needed its shepherd and the life-taught sage Leaves no successor; but to chosen men, The rescuers and guides of Israel, A death was given called the Death of Grace, Which freed them from the burden of the flesh But left them rulers of the multitude And loved companions of the lonely. This Was God's last gift to Moses, this the hour When soul must part from self and be but soul. God spake to Gabriel, the messenger Of mildest death that draws the parting life Gently, as when a little rosy child Lifts up its lips from off the bowl of milk And so draws forth a curl that dipped its gold In the soft white — thus Gabriel draws the soul. " Go bring the soul of Moses unto me! " And the awe-stricken angel answered, " Lord, How shall I dare to take his life who lives Sole of his kind, not to be likened once In all the generations of the earth? " 448 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Then God called Michael, him of pensive brow, Snow-vest and flaming sword, who knows and acts: " Go bring the spirit of Moses unto me! " But Michael with such grief as angels feel, Loving the mortals whom they succour, pled: " Almighty spare me; it was I who taught Thy servant Moses ; he is part of me As I of thy deep secrets, knowing them." Then God called Zamael, the terrible, The angel of fierce death, of agony That comes in battle and in pestilence Remorseless, sudden or with lingering throes. And Zamael, his raiment and broad wings Blood-tinctured, the dark lustre of his eyes Shrouding the red, fell like the gathering night Before the prophet. But that radiance Won from the heavenly presence in the mount Gleamed on the prophet's brow and dazzling pierced Its conscious opposite: the angel turned His murky gaze aloof and inly said: " An angel this, deathless to angel's stroke." But Moses felt the subtly nearing dark: "Who art thou? and what wilt thou?" Zamael then : " I am God's reaper ; through the fields of life I gather ripened and unripened souls Both willing and unwilling. And I come Now to reap thee." But Moses cried, Firm as a seer who waits the trusted sign : " Reap thou the fruitless plant and common herb — Not him who from the womb was sanctified To teach the law of purity and love." And Zamael baffled from his errand fled. THE DEATH OF MOSES 449 But Moses, pausing, in the air serene Heard now that mystic whisper, far yet near, The all-penetrating Voice, that said to him, " Moses, the hour is come and thou must die." " Lord, I obey ; but thou rememberest How thou, Ineffable, didst take me once Within thy orb of light untouched by death." Then the voice answered, "Be no more afraid: With me shall be thy death and burial." So Moses waited, ready now to die. And the Lord came, invisible as a thought, Three angels gleaming on his secret track, Prince Michael, Zagael, Gabriel, charged to guard The soul-forsaken body as it fell And bear it to the hidden sepulchre Denied forever to the search of man. And the Voice said to Moses: " Close thine eyes." He closed them. " Lay thine hand upon thine heart, And draw thy feet together." He obeyed. And the Lord said, " O spirit! child of mine! A hundred years and twenty thou hast dwelt Within this tabernacle wrought of clay. This is the end: come forth and flee to heaven." But the grieved soul with plaintive pleading cried, " I love this body with a clinging love: The courage fails me, Lord, to part from it." " O child, come forth! for thou shalt dwell with me About the immortal throne where seraphs joy In growing vision and in growing love." Yet hesitating, fluttering, like the bird With young wing weak and dubious, the soul VOL. rvn — 29 450 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT Stayed. But behold! upon the death-dewed lips A kiss descended, pure, unspeakable — The bodiless Love without embracing Love That lingered in the body, drew it forth With heavenly strength and carried it to heaven. But now beneath the sky the watchers all, Angels that keep the homes of Israel Or on high purpose wander o'er the world Leading the Gentiles, felt a dark eclipse: The greatest ruler among men was gone. And from the westward sea was heard a wail, A dirge as from the isles of Javanim, Crying, " Who now is left upon the earth Like him to teach the right and smite the wrong? " And from the East, far o'er the Syrian waste, Came slowlier, sadlier, the answering dirge: " No prophet like him lives or shall arise In Israel or the world forevermore." But Israel waited, looking toward the mount, Till with the deepening eve the elders came Saying, " His burial is hid with God. We stood far off and saw the angels lift His corpse aloft until they seemed a star That burnt itself away within the sky." The people answered with mute orphaned gaze Looking for what had vanished evermore. Then through the gloom without them and within The spirit's shaping light, mysterious speech, Invisible Will wrought clear in sculptured sound, The thought-begotten daughter of the voice, Thrilled on their listening sense: "He has no tomb. He dwells not with you dead, but lives as Law." ARION (Herod. i.S4) A RION, whose melodic soul Taught the dithyramb to roll Like forest fires, and sing Olympian suffering, Had carried his diviner lore From Corinth to the sister shore Where Greece could largelier be, Branching o'er Italy. Then weighted with his glorious name And bags of gold, aboard he came 'Mid harsh seafaring men To Corinth bound again. The sailors eyed the bags and thought: " The gold is good, the man is naught — And who shall track the wave That opens for his grave? " With brawny arms 'and cruel eyes They press around him where he lies In sleep beside his lyre, Hearing the Muses quire. He waked and saw this wolf-faced Death Breaking the dream that filled his breath ' With inspirations strong Of yet unchanted song. 452 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT " Take, take my gold and let me live! " He prayed, as kings do when they give Their all with royal will, Holding born kingship still. To rob the living they refuse, One death or other he must choose, Either the watery pall Or wounds and burial. " My solemn robe then let me don, Give me high space to stand upon, That dying I may pour A song unsung before." It pleased them well to grant this prayer, To hear for naught how it might fare With men who paid their gold For what a poet sold. In flowing stole, his eyes aglow With inward fire, he neared the prow And took his god-like stand, The cithara in hand. The wolfish men all shrank aloof, And feared this singer might be proof Against their murderous power, After his lyric hour. But he, in liberty of song, Fearless of death or other wrong, With full spondaic toll Poured forth his mighty soul: ARION 458 Poured forth the strain his dream had taught, A nome with lofty passion fraught Such as makes battles won On fields of Marathon. The last long vowels trembled then As awe within those wolfish men: They said, with mutual stare, Some god was present there. But lo! Arion leaped on high, Ready, his descant done, to die; Not asking, " Is it well? " Like a pierced eagle fell. 1878 "OH MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR IN- VISIBLE " Longum iliud tempus, quum non ero, magis me movet, quam hoc exiguum. — CICERO, ad Alt., xii. 18. OH may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence : live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burden of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better — saw within THE CHOIR INVISIBLE 455 A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love — That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb Unread forever. This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. 1867 THE END University Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.